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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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WILD  ANIMAL 
WAYS 


Author  of 


Pfjtfi  200  Drawing  by  the  Author 

Garden  City,  N.  Y.,  and  Toronto 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

1922 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


,  ,,  ,      PB1NTKD  I^TIJE  UNITED  STATES 

•  TIMS  ccwfow  LIFE'PXISJ,;  GARDEJJ  CITY,  u.  r. 


Preface 

When  I  look  at  the  names  of  the  animals  whose 
stories  are  given  here,  I  feel  much  as  an  artist  might 
in  looking  at  sundry  portraits  of  his  friends  and 
ideals  painted  by  himself. 

Seme  of  these  I  personally  knew.  Some  are 
composites,  and  are  merely  natural  history  in 
story  form.  Way-atcha,  Atalapha,  and  Foam  are 
of  the  latter  kind. 

Foam  is  an  effort  to  show  how  the  wild  things 
instinctively  treat  themselves  in  sickness.  They 
have  their  herbs,  their  purges,  their  sudorifics,  their 
hot  and  cold  baths,  their  mud  baths,  their  fastings, 
their  water  sluicings,  their  massage,  their  rest  cure, 
and  their  sun  treatment. 

The  final  scene  when  the  Razor-back  utterly  de- 
feated the  Bear  was  witnessed  and  related  to  me 
long  ago  by  a  Michigan  lumberman,  whose  name 
I  cannot  recall.  The  minor  incidents  are  largely 
from  personal  observation  of  wild  hogs  in  various 
parts  of  America.  I  am  in  hopes  that  some  will 


3G5080 


Preface 

see  the  despised  Razor-back  in  a  more  friendly 
light  when  they  realize  the  strong  and  wise  little 
soul  that  lurks  behind  those  blinking  eyes. 

The  Wild  Geese  is  a  simple  narrative  of  well- 
known  facts,  facts  that  I  observed  among  the 
Honkers  in  my  own  home  park. 

Jinney,  the  bad  monkey,  I  never  saw,  but  I 
have  told  her  story  as  it  was  given  to  me  by  my 
old  friend  Louis  Ohnimus,  at  one  time  Director 
of  the  Woodward  Zoological  Gardens  in  San 
Francisco,  California. 

Billy  and  Coaly-Bay  are  in  the  main  true,  and 
a  recent  letter  from  the  West  gives  me  new  light 
on  the  history  of  the  wild  horse.  The  story  had 
just  appeared  in  Collier's  Magazine,  where  the 
writer  saw  it. 

The  letter  runs  as  follows: 

"January  26, 1916.  I,  too,  knew  Coaly-Bay,  the 
glorious  creature.  He  began  his  struggles  in  the 
Bitterroot  Mountains  of  Idaho,  left  through  the 
Salmon  River  country  straggling  tales  of  his 
fierce  resentment  under  the  yoke,  and  escaped 
triumphantly  at  last  to  the  plains  in  the  south. 

"I  was  sixteen  then  and  it  is  six  years  ago. 

"Something,  however,  you  failed  to  record.  It 
is  this:  that  before  he  escaped  from  the  world  of 
vi 


Preface 

spur  and  lash,  the  world  of  compulsion,  the  world 
that  denies  to  a  horse  an  end  in  himself,  he  came 
to  love  one  person — me,  the  woman  who  petted 
instead  of  saddled  him,  who  gave  him  sugar  in- 
stead of  spurring  him,  who  gloried  in  him  because 
he  dared  assert  that  he  belonged  to  himself.  For 
I,  too,  was  an  outlaw. 

"When  I  wandered  joyfully  through  the  ever- 
green labyrinths  of  the  Florence  Basin,  sniffing  like 
a  hare  or  fox  the  damp  spring  smell  of  the  earth, 
going  far  down  the  narrow,  rock-walled  canyons 
for  the  first  wild  orchids,  Coaly-Bay  came,  too.  I 
did  not  ride  or  drive  him.  He  trotted  beside  me 
as  might  a  dog.  We  were  pals,  equals,  fellow 
rebels.  I  went  with  him  where  he  could  find  the 
first  young  meadow  grass,  and  he  went  with  me 
where  grew  the  first  wild  strawberries.  As  to- 
gether we  glimpsed,  far  below,  the  green  ribbon 
that  was  the  Salmon  River,  or  saw,  far  off,  the  snow 
attempting  to  cover  the  sinister  blackness  of  the 
Buffalo  Hump,  we  laughed  at  the  stupidity  of  the 
world  of  man,  who  sought  to  drive  things,  to  com- 
pel things,  to  master  things,  breeding  hate  and 
viciousness  thereby;  the  stupidity  of  the  world  of 
men  who  never  dreamed  of  the  marvellous  power 
of  love! 

"But  they  came  between  us,  these  men;  and 
vii 


Preface 

when  Coaly-Bay  broke  the  leg  of  one  of  them,  I 
laughed.  That  day  when  they  were  going  to 
crush  his  spirit  with  a  bullet,  I  hated  them!  And 
when  he  escaped  down  those  endless  labyrinths, 
which  we  had  threaded  together  so  often,  how  I 
gloated!  But  later  I  wept,  for  he  had  left  me  to 
be  an  outlaw  alone. 

"Yes,  always  I  shall  love  the  memory  of  Coaly- 
Bay.  He  was  a  symbol  of  the  eternal  spirit  of 
Revolt  against  the  Spur  of  Oppression.  My  desire 
is  to  be  as  true  to  that  spirit  as  he  was,  to  fight 
the  lash  and  spur,  to  bleed  or  starve  rather  than 
submit." 

I  gladly  quote  this  letter  because  it  interprets 
some  others  of  my  friends  as  well  as  Coaly-Bay. 
New  York, 
February  27,  1916. 


Contents 

MOB 

V  Coaly-Bay,  The  Outlaw  Horse 

The  Wilful  Beauty 3 

The  Bear  Bait 9 

His  Destined  End 12 

IL    Foam,  of  The  Life  and  Adventures  of  a 
Razor-Backed  Hog 

The  Mother 19 

Lizette  and  the  Bear 23 

The  Foundling 26 

Pig,  Duck,  and  Lamb 27 

Foam  as  Defender 31 

A  Bad  Old  Bear 35 

The  Swamp 38 

Smell-power 39 

The  Rattlesnake 41 

Wildwood  Medicine 46 

Springtime 50 

Grizel  Seeks  Her  Fortune 52 

The  Scratching  Post 54 

The  Lovers Sft 

i*' 


Contents 

PAGE 

The  Wildcat 57 

The  Pork-eating  Bear 63 

Hill  Billy  Bogue 67 

The  Hog  Warriof  and  the  Hounds     ...  70 

Lizette  and  an  Old  Friend 72 

The  Bear  Claims  Another  Victim.     .     ,     .  75 

The  Defeat  of  Hill  Billy 76 

The  Day  of  Judgment 78 

HI.    Way-Atcha,  The  Coon-Raccoon  of  Kil- 
det  Creek 

The  Home-seekers 9° 

The  Home 92 

Schooling  the  Children 94 

The  Mysterious  Warning 98 

The  Hunters 101 

The  Wayward  Child 104 

A  Merry  Life  on  the  Farm 107 

The  Ancient  Foe m 

The  Blessed  Hollow  Tree 116 

IV.    Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

Silly  Billy 123 

The  Prof essional  Rough 127 

The  Fiery  Furnace  and  the  Gold  .     ...  134 

V.    Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

The  Twins 143 

The  Schooling  of  a  Brownie 147 

x 


Contents 

FAGS 

The  Undoing  of  Little  Brother     ....  153 

Atalapha 's  Toilet 156 

The  Coming  of  the  Bridegrooms  .      ...  158 

The  Great  Southern  Trek 161 

Northward,  Home  Again 165 

Wings  and  Friendships 168 

The  Winged  Tiger  and  the  Unknown  Death  172 

Atalapha  Wounded  and  Captive  .     ...  178 

The  Wings  That  See 181 

Atalapha  Meets  with  Silver-brown    .     .     .  187 

The  Love  Fire 189 

The  Race  With  the  Swallows 195 

Lost  on  the  Water 197 

The  Remorseless  Sea 201 

The  Brownies  of  the  Blood  Royal      .     .     .  204 

VL    The  "Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygool 

The  Bugling  on  the  Lake 211 

The  Fifth  Commandment 214 

Father  or  Mother 218 

VII.    Jinny,  The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

A  Dangerous  Brute 225 

Jinny  Finds  a  New  Life 230 

The  Soul  of  a  Monkey 235 


LIST  OF  FULL  PAGE   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Free  at  Last Frontispiece 

7A3HG  PACK 

Foam's  early  days  with  his  Mother  ...       22 
The  fight  with  the  Kogar's  Bear       ...       80 

Way-atcha  with  his  Mother  and  Brothers 
hunting  in  the  moonlight 101 

Hanging  to  the  Big  Bear's  face,  flapping  like  a 
rag,  was  Silly  Billy 136 

The  portrait  of  a  Brownie 144 

Chasing  the  booming  June-bug    ....     150 
The  flittering  Brownie  host  in  the  moonlight    160 


I 

Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

k  THE  WILFUL   BEAUTY 

IVE  years  ago  in  the  Bit- 
v  terroot  mountains  of  Idaho 
there  was  a  beautiful  little 
foal.     His  coat   was  bright 
bay;  his  legs,  mane,  and  tail 
were  glossy  black — coal  black 
and    bright    bay — so    they 
named  him  Coaly-bay. 

"Coaly-bay"  sounds  like"  Koli- 
bey,"  which  is  an  Arab  title  of 
nobility,  and  those  who  saw  the  handsome  colt, 
and  did  not  know  how  he  came  by  the  name, 
thought  he  must  be  of  Arab  blood.  No  doubt  he 
was,  in  a  faraway  sense;  just  as  all  our  best  horses 
have  Arab  blood,  and  once  in  a  while  it  seems  to 
come  out  strong  and  show  in  every  part  of  the 
creature,  in  his  frame,  his  power,  and  his  wild,  free 
roving  spirit. 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

Coaly-bay  loved  to  race  like  the  wind,  he  gloried 
in  his  speed,  his  tireless  legs,  and  when  careering 
with  the  herd  of  colts  they  met  a  fence  or  ditch,  it 
was  as  natural  to  Coaly-bay  to  overleap  it,  as  it 
was  for  the  others  to  sheer  off. 

So  he  grew  up  strong  of  limb,  restless  of  spirit, 
and  rebellious  at  any  thought  of  restraint.  Even 
the  kindly  curb  of  the  hay -yard  or  the  stable  was 
unwelcome,  and  he  soon  showed  that  he  would 
rather  stand  out  all  night  in  a  driving  storm  than 
be  locked  in  a  comfortable  stall  where  he  had  no 
vestige  of  the  liberty  he  loved  so  well. 

He  became  very  clever  at  dodging  the  horse 
wrangler  whose  job  it  was  to  bring  the  horseherd 
to  the  corral.  The  very  sight  of  that  man  set 
Coaly-bay  agoing.  He  became  what  is  known  as 
a  "Quit-the-bunch" — that  is  a  horse  of  such  inde- 
pendent mind  that  he  will  go  his  own  way  the  mo- 
ment he  does  not  like  the  way  of  the  herd. 

So  each  month  the  colt  became  more  set  on 
living  free,  and  more  cunning  in  the  means  he 
took  to  win  his  way.  Far  down  in  his  soul,  too, 
there  must  have  been  a  streak  of  cruelty,  for  he 
stuck  at  nothing  and  spared  no  one  that  seemed  to 
stand  between  him  and  his  one  desire. 

When  he  was  three  years  of  age,  just  in  the  per- 
fection of  his  young  strength  and  beauty,  his  real 


o 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

troubles  began,  for  now  his  owner  undertook  to 
break  him  to  ride.  He  was  as  tricky  and  vicious 
as  he  was  handsome,  and  the  first  day's  experience 
was  a  terrible  battle  between  the  horse-trainer  and 
the  beautiful  colt. 

But  the  man  was  skilful.  He  knew  how  to  ajx 
ply  his  power,  and  all  the  wild  plunging,  bucking, 
rearing,  and  rolling  of  the  wild  one  had  no  desir- 
able result.  With  all  his  strength  the  horse  was 
hopelessly  helpless  in  the  hands  of  the  skilful 
horseman,  and  Coaly-bay  was  so  far  mastered  at 
length  that  a  good  rider  could  use  him.  But  each 
time  the  saddle  went  on,  he  made  a  new  fight. 
After  a  few  months  of  this  the  colt  seemed  to  realize 
that  it  was  useless  to  resist,  it  simply  won  for  him 
lashings  and  spurrings,  so  he  pretended  to  reform. 
For  a  week  he  was  ridden  each  day  and  not  once  did 
he  buck,  but  on  the  last  day  he  came  home  lame. 

His  owner  turned  him  out  to  pasture.  Three 
days  later  he  seemed  all  right;  he  was  caught  and 
saddled.  He  did  not  buck,  but  within  five  minutes 
he  went  lame  as  before.  Again  he  was  turned  out 
to  pasture,  and  after  a  week,  saddled,  only  to  go 
lame  again. 

His  owner  did  not  know  what  to  think,  whether 
the  horse  really  had  a  lame  leg  or  was  only  sham- 
ming, but  he  took  the  first  chance  to  get  rid  of  him, 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

and  though  Coaly-bay  was  easily  worth  fifty  dol- 
lars, he  sold  him  for  twenty-five.  The  new  owner 
felt  he  had  a  bargain,  but  after  being  ridden  half  a 
2  mile  Coaly-bay  went  lame.  The  rider  got  off  to 
*  examine  the  foot,  whereupon  Coaly-bay  broke  away 
and  galloped  back  to  his  old  pasture.  Here  he  was 
caught,  and  the  new  owner,  being  neither  gentle 
nor  sweet,  applied  spur  without  mercy,  so  that  the 
next  twenty  miles  was  covered  in  less  than  two  hours 
and  no  sign  of  lameness  appeared. 

Now  they  were  at  the  ranch  of  this  new  owner. 
Coaly-bay  was  led  from  the  door  of  the  house  to  the 
pasture,  limping  all  the  way,  and  then  turned  out. 
He  limped  over  to  the  other  horses.  On  one  side 
of  the  pasture  was  the  garden  of  a  neighbor. 
This  man  was  very  proud  of  his  fine  vegetables  and 
had  put  a  six-foot  fence  around  the  place.  Yet  the 
very  night  after  Coaly-bay  arrived,  certain  of  the 
horses  got  into  the  garden  somehow  and  did  a  great 
deal  of  damage.  But  they  leaped  out  before  day- 
light and  no  one  saw  them. 

The  gardener  was  furious,  but  the  ranchman 
stoutly  maintained  that  it  must  have  been  some 
other  horses,  since  his  were  behind  a  six-foot  fence. 

Next  night  it  happened  again.  The  ranchman 
went  out  very  early  and  saw  all  his  horses  in  the 
pasture,  with  Coaly-bay  behind  them.  His  lame- 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

ness  seemed  worse  now  instead  of  better.    In  a  few  x  ^ 

days,  however,  the  horse  was  seen  walking  all          '//%  V* 

right,  so  the  ranchman's  son  caught  him  and  tried        -*$**  ** 

to  ride  him.    But  this  seemed  too  good  a  chance       ^^  'J^y-T*5* 

to  lose;  all  his  old  wickedness  returned  to  the  horse;  ^^  &     jf 

the  boy  was  bucked  off  at  once  and  hurt.    The  (f^^^f  ^^^~  *>^ 

ranchman  himself  now  leaped  into  the  saddle;  r  ^  s&$£&i$l^   )  ' 

Coaly-bay  bucked  for  ten  minutes,  but  rinding  he    \  ^c^       ^ 

could  not  throw  the  man,  he  tried  to  crush  his  leg 

against  a  post,  but  the  rider  guarded  himself  well. 

Coaly-bay  reared  and  threw  himself  backward; 

the  rider  slipped  off,  the  horse  fell,  jarring  heavily, 

and  before  he  could  rise  the  man  was  in  the  saddle 

again.    The  horse  now  ran  away,  plunging  and 

bucking;  he  stopped  short,  but  the  rider  did  not  go 

over  his  head,  so  Coaly-bay  turned,  seized  the  man's 

foot  in  his  teeth,  and  but  for  heavy  blows  on  the 

nose  would  have  torn  him  dreadfully.    It  was  quite 

clear  now  that  Coaly-bay  was  an  "outlaw" — that 

is  an  incurably  vicious  horse. 

The  saddle  was  jerked  off,  and  he  was  driven, 
limping,  into  the  pasture. 

The  raids  on  the  garden  continued,  and  the  two 
men  began  to  quarrel  over  it.  But  to  prove  that 
his  horses  were  not  guilty  the  ranchman  asked  the 
gardener  to  sit  up  with  him  and  watch.  That 
night  as  the  moon  was  brightly  shining  they  saw, 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

not  all  the  horses,  but  Coaly-bay,  walk  straight  up 
to  the  garden  fence — no  sign  of  a  limp  now — easily 
leap  over  it,  and  proceed  to  gobble  the  finest 
things  he  could  find.  After  they  had  made  sure 
of  his  identity,  the  men  ran  forward.  Coaly-bay 
cleared  the  fence  like  a  Deer,  lightly  raced  over  the 
pasture  to  mix  with  the  horseherd,  and  when  the 
men  came  near  him  he  had — oh,  such  an  awful 
limp. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  rancher.  "He's  a 
fraud,  but  he's  a  beauty,  and  good  stuff,  too." 

"Yes,  but  it  settles  who  took  my  garden  truck," 
said  the  other. 

"Wall,  I  suppose  so,"  was  the  answer;  "but  luk 
a  here,  neighbor,  you  ain't  lost  more'n  ten  dollars 
in  truck.  That  horse  is  easily  worth — a  hundred. 
Give  me  twenty-five  dollars,  take  the  horse,  an* 
call  it  square." 

"Not  much  I  will,"  said  the  gardener.  "Fm 
out  twenty-five  dollars'  worth  of  truck;  the  horse 
ain't  worth  a  cent  more.  I  take  him  and  call  it 
even." 

And  so  the  thing  was  settled.  The  ranchman 
said  nothing  about  Coaly-bay  being  vicious  as  well 
as  cunning,  but  the  gardener  found  out,  the  very 
first  time  he  tried  to  ride  him,  that  the  horse  was  as 
bad  as  he  was  beautiful. 

8 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

Next  day  a  sign  appeared  on  the  gardener's 
gate: 


FOR  SALE 

First-class  horse,  sound 
and  gentle.     $10.00 


THE   BEAR  BAIT  \ 

Now  at  this  time  a  band  of  hunters  came  riding  * 
by.    There  were  three  mountaineers,  two  men 
from  the  city,  and  the  writer  of  this  story.    The 
city  men  were  going  to  hunt  Bear.    They  had  guns 
and  everything  needed  for  Bear-hunting,  except 
bait.    It  is  usual  to  buy  some  worthless  horse  or 
cow,  drive  it  into  the  mountains  where  the  Bears 
are,  and  kill  it  there.    So  seeing  the  sign  up,  the 
hunters  called  to  the  gardener:  "Haven't  you  got  a 
cheaper  horse?  " 

The  gardener  replied:  "Look  at  him  there,  ain't 
he  a  beauty?  You  won't  find  a  cheaper  horse  if 
you  travel  a  thousand  miles." 

"We  are  looking  for  an  old  Bear-bait,  and  five 
dollars  is  our  limit,"  replied  the  hunter. 

Horses  were  cheap  and  plentiful  in  that  country; 
buyers  were  scarce.  The  gardener  feared  that 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Hofse 

Coaly-bay  would  escape.  "Wall,  if  that's  the  best 
you  can  do,  he's  yourn." 

The  hunter  handed  him  five  dollars,  then  said: 

"Now,  stranger,  bargain's  settled.  Will  you 
tell  me  why  you  sell  this  fine  horse  for  five  dollars?  " 

"Mighty  simple.  He  can't  be  rode.  He's  dead 
lame  when  he's  going  your  way  and  sound  as  a  dol- 
lar going  his  own;  no  fence  in  the  country  can  hold 
him;  he's  a  dangerous  outlaw.  He's  wickeder  nor 
old  Nick." 

"Well,  he's  an  almighty  handsome  Bear-bait," 
and  the  hunters  rode  on. 

Coaly-bay  was  driven  with  the  packhorses,  and 
limped  dreadfully  on  the  trail.  Once  or  twice  he 
tried  to  go  back,  but  he  was  easily  turned  by  the 
»  ^  men  behind  him.  His  limp  grew  worse,  and  toward 
night  it  was  painful  to  see  him. 

The  leading  guide  remarked:  "That  thar  limp 
ain't  no  fake.  He's  got  some  deep-seated  trouble." 

Day  after  day  the  hunters  rode  farther  into  the 
mountains,  driving  the  horses  along  and  hobbling 
them  at  night.  Coaly-bay  went  with  the  rest, 
limping  along,  tossing  his  head  and  his  long  splen- 
did mane  at  every  step.  One  of  the  hunters  tried 
to  ride  him  and  nearly  lost  his  life,  for  the  horse 
seemed  possessed  of  a  demon  as  soon  as  the  man 
was  on  his  back. 

10 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

The  road  grew  harder  as  it  rose.  A  very  bad  bog 
had  to  be  crossed  one  day.  Several  horses  were 
mired  in  it,  and  as  the  men  rushed  to  the  rescue, 
Coaly-bay  saw  his  chance  of  escape.  He  wheeled 
in  a  moment  and  turned  himself  from  a  limping, 
low-headed,  sorry,  bad-eyed  creature  into  a  high- 
spirited  horse.  Head  and  tail  aloft  now,  shaking 
their  black  streamers  in  the  wind,  he  gave  a  joyous 
neigh,  and,  without  a  trace  of  lameness,  dashed  for 
his  home  one  hundred  miles  away,  threading  each 
narrow  trail  with  perfect  certainty,  though  he  had 
seen  them  but  once  before,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
had  steamed  away  from  their  sight. 

The  men  were  furious,  but  one  of  them,  saying 
not  a  word,  leaped  on  his  horse — to  do  what?  Fol- 
low that  free  ranging  racer?  Sheer  folly.  Oh, 
no ! — he  knew  a  better  plan.  He  knew  the  country. 
Two  miles  around  by  the  trail,  half  a  mile  by  the 
rough  cut-off  that  he  took,  was  Panther  Gap.  The 
runaway  must  pass  through  that,  and  Coaly-bay 
raced  down  the  trail  to  find  the  guide  below  await- 
ing him.  Tossing  his  head  with  anger,  he  wheeled 
on  up  the  trail  again,  and  within  a  few  yards  recov- 
ered his  monotonous  limp  and  his  evil  expression. 
He  was  driven  into  camp,  and  there  he  vented  his 
rage  by  kicking  in  the  ribs  of  a  harmless  little 
packhorse. 

ii 


Coaly-Bayf  the  Outlaw  Horse 

HIS  DESTINED   END 

This  was  Bear  country,  and  the  hunters  resolved 
to  end  his  dangerous  pranks  and  make  him  useful 
for  once.    They  dared  not  catch  him,  it  was  not 
really  safe  to  go  near  him,  but  two  of  the  guides 
drove  him  to  a  distant  glade  where  Bears  abounded, 
•s  A  thrill  of  pity  came  over  me  as  I  saw  that  beautiful 
1  untamable  creature  going  away  with  his  imitation 
limp. 
"Ain't  you  coming  along?"  called  the  guide. 

:"No,  I  don't  want  to  see  him  die,"  was  the 
answer.  Then  as  the  tossing  head  was  disap- 
pearing I  called:  "Say,  fellows,  I  wish  you  would 
bring  me  that  mane  and  tail  when  you  come 
back!" 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  distant  rifle  crack  was 
card,  and  in  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  that  proud  head 
and  those  superb  limbs,  robbed  of  their  sustaining 
indomitable  spirit,  falling  flat  and  limp — to  suffer 
the  unsightly  end  of  fleshly  things.    Poor  Coaly- 
bay;  he  would  not  bear  the  yoke.    Rebellious  to 
the  end,  he  had  fought  against  the  fate  of  all  his 
kind.    It  seemed  to  me  the  spirit  of  an  Eagle  or  a 
Wolf  it  was  that  dwelt  behind  those  full  bright  eyes 
— that  ordered  all  his  wayward  life. 
I  tried  to  put  the  tragic  finish  out  of  mind,  and 

12 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

had  not  long  to  battle  with  the  thought;  not  even 
one  short  hour,  for  the  men  came  back. 

Down  the  long  trail  to  the  west  they  had  driven 
him;  there  was  no  chance  for  him  to  turn  aside. 
He  must  go  on,  and  the  men  behind  felt  safe  in 
that. 

Farther  away  from  his  old  home  on  the  Bitter- 
root  River  he  had  gone  each  time  he  journeyed. 
And  now  he  had  passed  the  high  divide  and  was 
keeping  the  narrow  trail  that  leads  to  the  valley  of 
Bears  and  on  to  Salmon  River,  and  ^till  away  to  the 
open  wild  Columbian  Plains,  limping  sadly  as 
though  he  knew.  His  glossy  hide  flashed  back  the 
golden  sunlight,  still  richer  than  it  fell,  and  the  men 
behind  followed  like  hangmen  in  the  death  train 
of  a  nobleman  condemned — down  the  narrow  trail 
till  it  opened  into  a  little  beaver  meadow,  with 
rank  rich  grass,  a  lovely  mountain  stream  and 
winding  Bear  paths  up  and  down  the  waterside. 

"Guess  this'll  do,"  said  the  older  man.  "Well, 
here  goes  for  a  sure  death  or  a  clean  miss,"  said  the 
other  confidently,  and,  waiting  till  the  limper  was 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  meadow,  he  gave  a  short, 
sharp  whistle.  Instantly  Coaly-bay  was  alert. 
He  swung  and  faced  his  tormentors,  his  noble  head 
erect,  his  nostrils  flaring;  a  picture  of  horse  beauty 
—yes,  of  horse  perfection. 

13 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

The  rifle  was  levelled,  the  very  brain  its  mark, 
just  on  the  cross  line  of  the  eyes  and  ears,  that 
meant  sure — sudden,  painless  death. 

The  rifle  cracked.  The  great  horse  wheeled  and 
dashed  away.  It  was  sudden  death  or  miss — and 
the  marksman  missed. 

Away  went  the  wild  horse  at  his  famous  best, 
not  for  his  eastern  home,  but  down  the  unknown 
western  trail,  away  and  away;  the  pine  woods  hid 
him  from  the  view,  and  left  behind  was  the  rifleman 
vainly  trying  to  force  the  empty  cartridge  from  his 
gun. 

Down  that  trail  with  an  inborn  certainty  he  went, 
and  on  through  the  pines,  then  leaped  a  great  bog, 
and  splashed  an  hour  later  through  the  limpid 
Clearwater  and  on,  responsive  to  some  unknown 
guide  that  subtly  called  him  from  the  farther  west. 
And  so  he  went  till  the  dwindling  pines  gave  place 
to  scrubby  cedars  and  these  in  turn  were  mixed 
with  sage,  and  onward  still,  till  the  faraway  flat 
plains  of  Salmon  River  were  about  him,  and  ever 
on,  tireless  as  it  seemed,  he  went,  and  crossed  the 
canyon  of  the  mighty  Snake,  and  up  again  to  the 
high  wild  plains  where  the  wire  fence  still  is  not, 
and  on,  beyond  the  Buffalo  Hump,  till  moving 
specks  on  the  far  horizon  caught  his  eager  eyes, 
and  coming  on  and  near,  they  moved  and  rushed 

14 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

aside  to  wheel  and  face  about.  He  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  called  to  them,  the  long  shrill  neigh  of  his 
kindred  when  they  bugled  to  each  other  on  the  far 
Chaldean  plain;  and  back  their  answer  came. 
This  way  and  that  they  wheeled  and  sped  and  car- 
acoled, and  Coaly-bay  drew  nearer,  called  and  gave 
the  countersigns  his  kindred  know,  till  this  they 
were  assured — he  was  their  kind,  he  was  of  the  wild 
free  blood  that  man  had  never  tamed.  And  when 
the  night  came  down  on  the  purpling  plain  his 
place  was  in  the  herd  as  one  who  after  many  a  long 
hard  journey  in  the  dark  had  found  his  home. 

There  you  may  see  him  yet,  for  still  his  strength 
endures,  and  his  beauty  is  not  less.  The  riders  tell 
me  they  have  seen  him  many  times  by  Cedra.  He 
is  swift  and  strong  among  the  swift  ones,  but  it  is 
that  flowing  mane  and  tail  that  mark  him  chiefly 
from  afar. 

There  on  the  wild  free  plains  of  sage  he  lives: 
the  stormwind  smites  his  glossy  coat  at  night  and 
the  winter  snows  are  driven  hard  on  him  at  times; 
the  Wolves  are  there  to  harry  all  the  weak  ones  of 
the  herd,  and  in  the  spring  the  mighty  Grizzly,  too, 
may  come  to  claim  his  toll.  There  are  no  luscious 
pastures  made  by  man,  no  grain-foods;  nothing 
but  the  wild  hard  hay,  the  wind  and  the  open  plains, 
but  here  at  last  he  found  the  thing  he  craved — the 


Coaly-Bay,  the  Outlaw  Horse 

one  worth  all  the  rest.  Long  may  he  roam — this 
is  my  wish,  and  this — that  I  may  see  him  once  again 
in  all  the  glory  of  his  speed  with  his  black  mane  on 
the  wind,  the  spur-galls  gone  from  his  flanks,  and 
in  his  eye  the  blazing  light  that  grew  in  his  far-off 
forebears'  eyes  as  they  spurned  Arabian  plains  to 
leave  behind  the  racing  wild  beast  and  the  fleet 
gazelle — yes,  too,  the  driving  sandstorm  that  over- 
whelmed the  rest,  but  strove  in  vain  on  the  dusty 
wake  of  the  Desert's  highest  born. 


H 

Foam,  or  The  Life  and  Adven- 
tures of  a  Razor-Backed  Hog 


H 

Foam,  or  The  Life  and  Adventures  of 
a  Razor-Backed  Hog 

THE   MOTHER 

HE  was  just  an  ordinary  Razor- 
backed Hog  in  the  woods  of  South 
Virginia,  long-legged  and  long- 
snouted,  strong  in  shoulder,  hard 
and  tight  in  the  flanks,  and  equipped 
with  sharp  white  tusks  that,  though 
short,  were  long  enough  to  inspire  terror  in  any  dog 
that  dared  to  try  her  mettle.  She  roamed  in  the 
glades  by  Prunty's  during  summer,  or  in  winter, 
when  food  was  scarce,  rendered  a  half-hearted  and 
mercenary  allegiance  to  the  Prunty  barnyard* 
which  furnished  a  sort  of  mart,  where  many  differ-  \ 
ent  races  met  to  profit  by  the  garnered  stores  or 
waste. 

The  early  spring  had  passed.    Bright  summer 
had  begun;  redbird  and  robin  were  stating  it  in  set 

19 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

terms,  while  wind-root  and  Mayflower  were  posting 
the  fact  on  their  low  banks,  and  the  Razor-back 
wandered  from  under  the  barn,  blinking  her  pale- 
lashed  eyes.  Pensively  nosing  the  ground,  she 
passed  by  untouched  some  corn  that  she  certainly 
smelled,  and,  a  day  before,  would  have  gobbled. 
But  she  was  uneasy  and  nosed  about  till  she  reached 
the  "branch"  where  she  drank  deeply.  Still 
swinging  slowly,  she  crossed  the  stream,  and  wan- 
dered into  the  woods.  She  listened  hard,  and  \ooked 
back  once  or  twice,  then  changed  her  course, 
crossed  the  brook  twice  more — yes,  that  is  their 
way  when  they  shun  pursuit — and  wandered  on 
till,  far  in  the  shades,  she  reached  an  upturned  tree 
root.  She  had  been  there  before,  and  the  layer  of 
grass  and  leaves  showed  the  beginnings  of  a  bed. 
After  sniffing  it  over,  she  set  about  gathering  more 
grass,  stopping  like  a  statue  occasionally  when 
some  strange  sound  was  wind-borne  to  her  ears. 
Once  or  twice  she  moved  away,  but  each  time  re- 
turned to  lie  down  uneasily  in  the  nest  she  had 
prepared. 

Oh  Mother,  All-mother  Nature  that  lays  such 
heavy  hand  upon  maternity  in  towns,  where  help 
is  near!  How  kind  thou  art  to  the  wildwood 
beast  that  all  alone  must  face  the  ordeal.  How 
doubly  blest  is  she,  in  strength  and  soon  deliver- 
20 


Foam— A  RazoHBacked  Hog; 

ance!  And  when  the  morning  sun  arose,  it  peeped 
a  rosy  peep  for  a  moment  under  the  old  gnarled 
roof-root,  to  see  a  brood  of  cowering  pink-nosed 
piglets,  with  their  mother  lying  as  a  living  barrier 
against  the  outside  world. 

Young  life  is  always  beautiful.  And  tjiose  who 
picture  pigs  as  evil  passions,  dirt  and  lust  expressed 
in  flesh  would  have  marvelled  to  see  the  baby  beauty 
of  that  brood  and  the  sweet  perfection  of  the 
mother's  love.  She  had  no  eyes  for  the  pretty 
rounded  forms  or  soft  clear  tints,  but  she  loved 
them  with  her  full  returning  force,  and  when,  with 
their  growing  strength  and  need  for  food,  they 
nosed  and  nudged  and  mouthed  her  body  for  their 
natural  sustenance,  that  double  row  of  noselets 
gave  double  thrills  of  mother  joy  and  dear  content. 
During  the  time  when  they  could  not  follow,  she 
grudged  the  moments  when  she  must  slip  away  to 
find  the  needful  food  and  drink,  nor  went  beyond 
the  reach  of  their  slightest  call. 

Her  life  all  winter  had  centred  in  the  barnyard. 
But  the  wish  to  keep  her  young  ones  hidden  made 
her  lead  them  deeper  into  the  woods  when  they  be- 
gan to  run.  And  the  sportive,  rollicking  crew,  bor- 
ing their  little  gimlet  noses  into  everything  near 
and  soft,  soon  grew  in  vigor  and  acquired  a  won- 
derful knowledge  of  woodland  smells.  There  were 
21 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

hosts  of  things  to  eat  in  the  Maytime  woods. 
Every  little  early  flower  has  a  bulbousjoot  that  is  a 
store  of  food.  Every  berry  that  follows  the  flower 
is  food.  And  when  it  so  falls  out  that  these  be 
poisonous,  and  such  there  be,  the  good  All-mother 
has  put  in  it  a  nasty  little  smell,  a  funny  tang,  or  a 
prickle  that  sounds  a  warning  to  the  wood-wise  pig 
and  makes  it  unpleasant  to  the  ever-moving  finger- 
tipped  inquiring  noses  of  the  rollicking  grunting 
piggy  band.  These  were  the  things  the  mother 
knew.  These  were  the  things  the  young  ones 
learned  by  watching  and  smelling.  One  of  them,  a 
lively  youngster  in  reddish  hair,  found  a  new  sen- 
sation. They  were  not  eating  yet,  but  the  mother 
was  rooting  and  eating  all  day,  and  the  youngsters 
rushed  to  smell  each  new  place  that  she  upheaved. 
Grubs  she  welcomed  as  a  superior  kind  of  roots, 
and  the  children  sniffed  approval.  Then  a  queer, 
broad,  yellow-banded,  humming,  flying  thing 
dropped  down  on  a  leaf  near  Redhead's  nose.  He 
poked  it  with  his  nose  finger-tip.  And  then  it 
did — it  did — something  he  could  not  understand, 
but  oh,  how  it  hurt!  He  gave  a  little  "Wowk" 
and  ran  to  his  mother.  His  tiny  bristles  stood  up 
and  he  chopped  his  little  foxlike  jaws  till  they 
foamed,  and  the  white  froth  flecked  his  cheeks.  It 
was  a  sun  and  night  before  little  Foamy  Chops  had 

22 


Foam's  early  days  with  his  Mother 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

got  over  it,  but  it  did  him  no  serious  harm,  and  he 
remembered. 

They  had  been  running  a  week  or  more  in  the 
woods  when  something  happened  to  show  how  the 
mother's  mind  was  changed  by  her  family.  Loud 
rumbling  noises  were  heard  not  far  ahead,  and  now 
they  were  coming  near.  Mother  understood  them 
quite  well — the  sounds  of  men  approaching.  She 
had  long  known  such  sounds  in  the  barnyard  days 
as  promise  of  food,  but  now  she  thought  of  her 
brood.  It  might  mean  danger  to  them,  and  she 
turned  about,  giving  a  low  "Woof"  that  somehow 
struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  young  ones. 
They  had  never  heard  that  before,  and  when  she 
wheeled  and  walked  quickly  away,  the  brood  went 
scrambling  behind  her  in  a  long  silent  troop,  with 
Foamy  Chops  at  his  mother's  tail. 

This  was  a  small  incident,  but  it  was  a  turning 
point,  for  thenceforth  the  mother  and  her  brood  had 
broken  with  the  barnyard  and  its  folk. 

LIZETTE  AND  THE  BEAR 

Lizette  Prunty  was  a  big  girl  now,  she  was  thir- 
teen and  not  afraid  to  go  far  alone  in  the  hills. 
June  with  its  sweet  alluring  strawberries  was  in  the 
woods,  and  Lizette  went  afield.  How  is  it  that  the 
berries  just  ahead  are  always  bigger,  riper,  and  more 

23 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

plentiful  than  those  around?  It  is  so,  and  she  kept 
hurrying  on  till  farther  from  home  than  ever  before! 
Then  a  log-cock  hammered  on  a  hollow  tree.  My! 
How  loud  it  was,  and  Lizette  paused  open-mouthed. 
Then,  as  she  barkened,  a  different  sound  was  heard, 
a  loud  "sniff,  sniff."  The  brushwood  swayed  and 
out  there  stepped  a  huge  black  Bear. 

At  the  little  frightened  "Oh!"  the  Bear  stopped, 
reared  up  to  his  great  height,  and  stood  there  gazing 
and  letting  off,  at  each  few  seconds,  a  loud,  far- 
reaching  "Woof. "  Poor  Lizette  was  terror  stricken. 
She  could  neither  speak  nor  run.  She  simply  stood 
and  gazed.  So  did  the  Bear. 

Then  another  noise  arose,  a  deep  grunt  and  a  lot 
of  little  grunties.  "A  whole  pack  of  Bears," 
thought  poor  Lizette,  but  she  could  not  move. 
She  merely  gazed  toward  the  new  sounds.  So  did 
the  Bear. 

This  time  when  the  tall  grass  parted  it  was  to 
show,  not  a  lot  of  Bears,  but  the  old  Razor-back 
long  missing  from  the  barnyard,  and  her  lively 
grunting  brood. 

Very  rarely  does  a  Bear  molest  a  child,  very 
rarely  does  he  miss  a  chance  for  pork.  The  black 
monster  dropped  on  all  fours  and  charged  at  the 
mother  and  her  brood. 

The  fierce  defiant  war-grunts  of  the  mother  might 
24 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

have  struck  terror  into  any  but  a  big  black  Bear, 
for  the  Razor-back  had  sharp  tusks  and  mighty 
jaws,  and  sturdy  legs,  and  flanks  all  armored  well 
with  double  hide  and  bristle  thatch,  and — the  heart 
of  a  devoted  mother. 

She  stood  her  ground  and  faced  the  foe,  while 
the  little  ones,  uttering  cries  of  fear,  crowded 
against  her  sides  or  hid  behind  her.  Only  little 
Foamy  stood  with  his  head  aloft  to  watch  the  awful 
enemy. 

Even  a  Bear  must  be  impressed  when  a  Razor- 
back  is  out  in  fighting  mood  to  save  her  young,  and 
he  walked  around  the  group  while  she  ever  turned 
to  face  him.  She  had  backed  into  a  protecting 
bush  that  made  any  but  front  attack  impossible. 
And  the  Bear  walked  this  way  and  that,  without 
seeing  any  good  chance  to  close,  for  the  mother  al- 
ways fronted  him,  and  those  champing  armed  jaws 
were  not  to  be  lightly  faced. 

Then  the  Bear  made  a  short  charge  and  stopped. 
The  mother,  ever  fronting,  saw  him  pause,  and  now 
she  charged.  She  ripped  his  arm  and  bit  the  other 
paw,  but  he  was  on  her  now,  and  in  a  rough  and 
tumble  the  Bear  had  every  chance.  He  stunned 
her  with  a  blow,  he  raked  her  sides,  he  crunched  her 
leg.  He  gripped  her  in  a  fierce  embrace  that  robbed 
her  of  all  fighting  breath,  while  his  hind  claws 

25 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

ripped  her  open,  and  as  they  struggled  in  the  final 
throe  Lizette  recovered  use  of  sense  and  limb;  she 
turned  and  fled  for  home. 


THE   FOUNDLING 

"  Oh,  father  it  was  awful  !  Just  down  by  Kogar's 
Creek.  I  can  take  you  there  in  half  an  hour." 

So  father  came  with  dog  and  gun.  Lizette  was 
guide,  and  in  a  little  while  they  were  among  the 
strawberry  tracts  of  Kogar's  Creek.  Turkey- 
buzzards  were  sailing  over  the  place  as  they  dre\f 
near.  They  found  the  very  spot.  There  lay  the 
mother  Razor-back,  torn  and  partly  devoured. 
Under  her  body  and  half  hidden  about  were  the 
young,  crushed,  each  of  them,  by  one  blow  of  that 
cruel  mighty  paw. 

Prunty  was  uttering  mannish  grunts  and  growls 
at  each  fresh  discovery,  Lizette  was  weeping,  when 
*ke  ^°^  kroke  into  a  tirade  at  something  far  under 
tne  Dusn;  and  bravely  facing  him  there  showed  a 
little  red-headed  piglet,  chopping  with  his  tiny  jaws 
till  the  foam  flew,  and  squeaking  out  defiance  to 
the  new  terror. 

"Hello,  there's  one  escaped!"  exclaimed  father. 
"Isn't  he  sassy?"  So  while  little  Foamy  was 
jr  i  heroically  facing  the  dog,  the  father  reached 
through  the  brush  from  behind,  and  seizing  the 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

piggie  by  the  hind  leg,  he  lifted  him  protesting, 
squealing,  and  champing,  to  drop  him  into  his  game 
bag. 

"Poor  little  chap,  see  how  his  nose  is  skinned! 
He  must  be  hungry.  I'm  afraid  he's  too  young  to 
liv«." 

"Oh,  do  let  me  have  him,  Father;  I'll  feed  him," 
and  so  Lizette's  moral  claim  to  Foamy  was  legalized 
on  the  spot. 

Prunty  had  brought  a  huge  bear  trap  to  the 
place,  and  now  he  set  it  by  the  body  of  the  victim. 
But  all  it  ever  caught  there  was  an  unlucky  turkey- 
buzzard.  The  Kogar's  Creek  Bear  was  too  cunning 
to  be  taken  by  such  means:  and  buzzards,  insects, 
and  kindly  flowers  wiped  out  all  tragic  records  on 
that  spot. 

PIG,  DUCK,   AND  LAMB 

Poor  little  Foamy  Chops.  He  was  so  hungry, 
so  forlorn,  and  his  nose  was  so  sore  where  the  Bear 
had  scratched  him.  He  did  not  know  that  Lizette 
was  his  friend,  and  he  champed  his  little  harmless 
jaws  at  her  in  defiance  when  she  put  him  in  the  box 
that  was  to  take  the  place  of  all  outdoors  for  him. 
She  washed  his  wounded  nose.  She  brought  him 
some  warm  milk  in  a  saucer,  but  he  did  not  under- 
stand it  that  way.  Hours  went  by  and  still  he 
27 


Foam — A  Razof-Backed  Hog 

crouched  in  dull,  motionless  despair.  Then  Liz- 
ette's  own  nurse  came  with  a  feeding  bottle.  Foam 
kicked,  squealed,  and  champed  his  jaws,  but  strong 
hands  wrapped  him  up  in  a  cloth.  The  bottle 
feeder  was  put  to  his  open  mouth.  It  was  warm 
and  sweet.  He  was  oh!  so  hungry  now!  He  could 
no  more  help  sucking  than  any  other  baby  could, 
and  when  the  bottle  was  empty,  he  slept  the  long 
sweet  sleep  he  so  much  needed. 

When  you  help  some  one  it  always  makes  you 
love  that  some  one  very  much;  so  of  course  Lizette 
was  now  devoted  to  little  Foam;  but  he  knew  her 
only  as  a  big  dangerous  thing,  and  hated  her.  Yet 
not  for  long.  He  was  an  intelligent  little  Razor- 
back;  and  before  his  tail  had  the  beginning  of 
a  curl  he  learned  that  "Lizette"  meant  "food,"  so 
he  rose  each  time  to  meet  her.  Next  he  found  he 
could  bring  Lizette — that  is,  food — if  he  squealed, 
and  thenceforth  his  daily  practice  developed  a 
mighty  voice. 

In  a  week  his  shyness  was  gone.  He  was  now 
transferred  to  a  stall  in  the  stable.  In  a  month  he 
was  tame  as  a  cat  and  loved  to  have  his  back 
scratched,  and  the  large  wound  on  his  nose  was 
healed,  though  it  left  an  ugly  scar. 

Then  two  companions  entered  his  lif  e,  a  duck  and 
a  lamb,  strange  creatures  that  Foam  inspected  nar- 
28 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

rowly  out  of  his  white-rimmed  eyes,  with  distrust 
and  a  little  jealousy.  But  they  proved  pleasant 
persons  to  sleep  with;  they  kept  him  so  warm. 
And  soon  he  devised  means  of  enjoying  them  as  \^ 

playthings;  for  the  lamb's  tail  was  long  and  pull- 
able,  and  the  duck  could  be  tossed  over  his  back 
by  a  well-timed  "  root ! "  j 

The  box  stall  was  now  too  small,  but  a  fenced-in_/ 
yard  gave  ample  runway.  Here  in  the  tall  weeds 
little  Foam  would  root  and  race,  or  tease  his  play- 
mates, or  hide  from  his  foster-mother.  Yes,  many 
a  time  when  she  came  and  called  she  had  no  re- 
sponse; then  carefully,  anxiously  searching  about 
she  would  come  on  the  little  rascal  hiding  behind 
some  weeds.  Knowing  now  that  he  was  discov- 
ered, he  would  dash  forth  grunting  hilariously  at 
every  bound,  circling  about  like  a  puppy,  dodging 
away  when  she  tried  to  touch  him,  but  at  last  when 
tired  of  the  flirtation  he  would  surrender  on  the 
understanding  that  his  back  was  to  be  scratched. 

Many  a  circus  has  shown  the  wondering  world  a 
learned  pig,  a  creature  of  super-animal  intelligence, 
and  yet  we  say  of  a  dull  person,  "He  is  as  stupid  as 
a  pig,"  which  proves  merely  that  pigs  vary  vastly. 
Many  are  stupid,  but  there  are  great  possibilities 
in  the  race;  some  may  be  in  the  very  front  rank  of 
animal  intelligence.  The  lowest  in  the  scale  of 
29 


< 

1 


lw 

\ 


Foam  —  A  Razot-Backed  Hog 

pigs  is  the  fat  porker  of  the  thoroughbred  farm. 
The  highest  is  the  wild  Razor-back,  who  lives  by 
his  wits.  And  soon  it  was  clear  that  Foam  was 
high  in  his  class.  He  was  a  very  brainy  little  pig. 
But  he  developed  also  a  sense  of  humor,  and  a  real 
affection  for  Lizette. 

.50  At  the  shrill  whistle  which  her  father  had  taught 
S  ()  ^  ^f  her  to  make  with  her  fingers  in  her  teeth,  he  would 
come  racing  across  the  garden  —  that  is,  he  would 
come,  unless  that  happened  to  be  his  funny  day, 
when,  out  of  sheer  caprice,  he  would  hide  and  watch 
the  search. 

One  day  Lizette  was  blacking  her  shoes  with 
some  wonderful  French  polish  that  dried  quite 
shiny.  It  happened  to  be  Foam's  day  to  seek  for 
unusual  notice.  He  tumbled  the  lamb  on  top  of 
the  duck,  ran  three  times  around  Lizette,  then 
raised  himself  on  his  hind  legs  and  put  both  front 
feet  on  the  chair  beside  Lizette's  foot,  uttering 
meanwhile  a  short  whining  grunt  which  was  his 
way  of  saying,  "Please  give  me  some!"  Then 
Lizette  responded  in  an  unexpected  way:  she  painted 
his  front  feet  with  the  French  blacking,  which 
dried  in  a  minute,  and  Foam's  pale  pinky  hoofs 
were  made  a  splendid  shining  black.  The  opera- 
tion had  been  pleasantly  ticklesome,  and  Foam 
blinked  his  eyes,  but  did  not  move  till  it  was  over. 

30 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

Then  he  gravely  smelled  his  right  foot,  and  his 
left  foot,  and  grunted  again.  It  was  all  new  to 
him,  and  he  didn't  just  know  what  to  make  of  it; 
but  he  let  it  pass.  It  was  not  long  before  the  wear 
and  tear  of  his  wearing,  tearsome  life  spoiled  all  his 
French  polish,  and  next  time  Lizette  got  out  her 
brush  and  blacking  Foam  was  there  to  sniff  that 
queer  smell  and  offer  his  hoofs  again  for  treatment. 
The  sensation  must  have  pleased  him,  for  he  gravely 
stood  till  the  operation  was  done,  and  thenceforth 
every  blackening  time  he  came  and  held  his  feet 
for  their  morning  shine. 

FOAM  AS  DEFENDER 

Has  a  pig  a  conscience?  What  do  you  mean  by 
conscience?  If  it  means  a  realization  that  one  is 
breaking  a  law,  and  that  it  will  bring  punishment 
and  that  a  continuation  will  surely  pile  up  harder 
punishment,  then  animals  have  consciences  in  pro- 
portion to  their  brains.  And  Foam,  being  born  with 
ample  wits,  had  judge  and  jury,  accuser  and  witness, 
in  his  own  heart  when  he  himself  was  criminal. 

He  had  been  forbidden  to  tease  the  lamb,  who  was 
a  harmless  woolly  fool,  and  the  duck,  who  was  worse. 
Scolding  and  switching  were  things  he  understood, 
and  because  they  were  finally  associated  with  teas- 
ing his  companions,  he  learned  that 

3i 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

the  last  delightful  pleasures  must  be  classed  as 
crime.  More  than  once  when  he  was  riotously 
chasing  Muff  or  tumbling  Fluff  into  the  buttermilk, 
his  mistress,  without  showing  herself  or  speaking, 
merely  gave  a  short  whistle,  the  effect  of  which  was 
to  send  a  guilty-looking  little  pig  to  hide  in  the 
bushes.  Surely  he  was  conscience-stricken. 

Now  it  happened  one  morning  that  Lizette  looked 
from  her  window  over  the  garden  and  saw  Foam 
standing  very  still,  with  his  head  low  and  sidewise, 
his  eyes  blinking,  the  very  tip  of  his  tail  alone 
twisting — just  his  attitude  when  planning  some 
mischief.  She  was  about  to  use  her  whistle,  but 
waited  a  moment  to  be  sure.  The  lamb  was  lying 
under  the  tiny  rainshed  in  a  sort  of  dull  somnolence. 
Suddenly  the  duck  said  "Quack,"  and  ran  from  the 
grass  to  cower  beside  the  lamb.  The  latter  gave  a 
start  and  blew  its  nose.  Then  out  of  the  tall  weeds 
there  dashed  a  lumbering,  wolfish  puppy  dog, 
breaking  into  a  volley  of  glorious  "yaps"  as  he 
charged  on  the  helpless  duckling.  What  fun  it 
^  was!  And  the  lamb,  too,  was  so  frightened  that 
^7^  *V\%  the  valiant  puppy  assailed  it  without  fear. 

"  Yap,  yap,  yap ! "    How  brave  a  dog  can  be 
^  when  his  victim  runs  or  is  helpless !    The  duck 
quacked,  the  lamb  gave  a  bleat  of  terror, 
and  the  cur,  intoxicated  by  sue- 


Foam — A  Razot-Bacfced  Hog 

cess  and  hankering  for  the  highest  glories  known 
to  his  kind,  rushed  on  the  duckling,  tore  off  mouth- 
ful after  mouthful  of  feathers  from  his  back, 
and  would  in  a  little  while  have  rended  him  in 
pieces.  But  another  sound  was  heard,  the  short 
hoarse  "Gruff,  gruff,  gruff"  sounds  that  mean 
a  warpath  pig.  We  call  them  grunts,  because 
made  by  a  pig,  but  the  very  same  sounds  uttered  by 
a  Leopard  are  called  short  roars,  and  these  were 
what  came  naturally  from  Foam  as  he  bounded  into 
the  scene.  Every  bristle  on  his  back  was  erect,  his 
little  eyes  were  twinkling  with  green  light.  His 
jaws,  now  armed  with  small  but  sharp  and  growing 
tusks,  were  chopping  the  malignant  "chop,  chop" 
that  flecks  the  face  with  foam,  proclaims  the  war- 
lust,  and  lets  the  wise  ones  know  that  the  slumber- 
ing wild  beast  deep  inside  is  roused.  Not  love  of 
the  duck,  I  fear,  but  the  urge  of  deep-laid  ancient 
hate  of  the  Wolf,  was  on  him:  "a  Wolf  was  raiding 
his  home  place."  The  spirit  of  a  valiant  battling 
race  was  peeping  from  those  steadfast  eyes.  Race 
memories  of  ancestral  fights  boiled  in  his  blood. 
Foam  charged  the  dog. 

Was  ever  bully  more  surprised?  Gleefully  the 
puppy  had  clutched  the  duckling's  wing  to  drag 
him  forth,  when  the  little  avalanche  of  red  rage  pig 
was  on  him,  and  the  heave  that  struck  his  ribs  had 

33 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

pins  in  it;  it  tumbled  him  heels  over  head,  scratched 
and  even  bleeding.  His  yaps  of  glorious  victory 
were  changed  into  howls  and  yelps  of  dire  defeat. 
Foam  was  on  him  again.  The  cur  sought  to  escape; 
limping,  howling  through  a  mouthful  of  plundered 
feathers,  he  raced  around  the  shed  with  Foam  be- 
hind, then  out  the  door,  and  through  the  weeds.  A 
cur  with  a  tail  all  tin-bedecked  went  never  more 
loudly  or  more  fast,  and  where  or  how  he  cleared 
the  fence  was  almost  overquick  for  certain  seeing, 
and  whence  he  came,  or  whither  he  went,  was  far 
from  sure — only  this:  that  his  yelping  died  away  in 
the  woods  and  no  more  was  seen  of  him. 

Lizette  and  her  father  both  were  on  hand.  Their 
dumb  astonishment  at  the  unexpected  quality  dis- 
covered in  the  little  Razor-back  was  followed  by  wild 
hilarity  at  the  discomfort  of  the  cur,  and  his  ignomin- 
ious flight  before  the  roused  and  valorous  Foam. 

They  went  into  the  garden,  and  the  pig  came  run- 
ning to  them.  Lizette  was  a  little  in  awe  of  him 
at  first,  but  he  was  now  no  longer  a  fighting  demon, 
just  a  funny  rollicking  little  Razor-back,  and  when 
she  wondered  what  he  would  do  next,  and  what 
S£\  she  should  do,  he  held  up  both  his  feet  on  a  bench 
that  she  might  give  them  their  morning  coat  of 
polish,  and  stuck  his  nose  so  tight  between  them 
that  she  gave  that  a  coat  of  blacking,  too. 

.34 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

Lizette  maintains  that  Foam  ceased  teasing  the 
lamb  and  the  duck  from  that  time.  He  certainly 
ceased  soon  after,  for  the  duck  was  grown  up  and 
soon  waddled  off  to  join  his  web-footed  kinsmen  on 
the  pool,  and  he  and  the  lamb  parted  company 
in  an  unexpected  manner. 

A   BAD   OLD   BEAR 

Just  as  there  are  rogues  among  Elephants,  idlers 
among  Beavers,  and  mangy  man-eaters  among 
Tigers,  so  there  are  outlaws  among  Bears — creatures 
at  war  with  all  the  world;  perverted  brutes  that 
find  pleasure  chiefly  in  destruction,  making  them- 
selves known  by  their  evil  deeds,  and  in  the  end 
making  enemies  strong  enough  to  turn  and  rend 
them.  The  Kogar's  Creek  Bear  was  one  of  these 
cruel  ones.  So  far  as  any  one  knows  he  never  had 
any  family  of  his  own,  but  roamed  into  the  Kogar's 
Creek  woods  probably  because  his  own  kind  drove 
him  out  of  their  own  country  in  the  mountains.  So 
he  drifted  into  Mayo  Valley,  where  Bears  were 
scarce,  and  wandered  about  doing  all  the  mischief 
he  could,  smashing  down  fences,  little  sheds,  or  field 
crops  that  he  could  not  eat,  for  the  pleasure  of 
destroying.  Most  Bears  eat  chiefly  vegetable  food, 
preferring  berries  and  roots;  some  Bears  eat  a  little 
of  all  kinds,  but  Kogar's  had  such  a  perverted  taste 

35 


Foam— A  Razot-Bacfced  Hog 

that  all  he  sought  was  flesh.  Calf's  flesh  he  loved, 
but  he  would  not  dream  of  facing  a  cow,  much 
less  a  bull.  He  delighted  in  robbing  birds'  nests, 
because  it  was  so  easy:  he  would  work  half  a  day  at 
a  hole  to  get  at  a  family  of  Flying  Squirrels.  At 
first  almost  any  kind  of  flesh  suited  him;  and  he  had 
eaten  more  than  one  little  baby  Bear  that  chanced 
to  stray  from  its  mother.  But  his  favorite  food 
was  pork.  He  would  go  a  long  way  for  a  porker, 
and  when  he  caught  it,  he  would  keep  it  alive  as 
long  as  possible  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  it  squeal. 

Of  course  he  took  only  little  ones  that  were  un- 
protected, and  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  him  that 
day  when  Foam's  mother  made  such  a  fight.  He 
had  always  thought  that  pigs  of  that  size  were  easy 
game.  He  took  revenge  on  the  little  ones,  and  he 
growled  and  limped  for  many  a  day  after  the  affair. 
It  kept  him  away  from  Razor-backs  and  he  preyed 
on  little  Rabbits  in  their  nests,  and  such  things  as 
could  not  defend  themselves.  But  his  wounds 
healed,  he  forgot  the  lesson  of  that  day,  and  longed 
for  a  feast  of  pork. 

A  wonderfully  keen  nose  had  the  Kogar's  Bear. 
The  wind  was  a  wireless  laden  with  stories  for  him, 
and  it  needed  but  a  little  study  to  discover  some 
special  message,  then  a  following  up  to  reap  the 
benefit. 

36 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

He  was  not  far  from  Prunty's  when  the  soft  breeze 
rippling  through  the  dawn  woods  brought  to  him 
the  sweet  alluring  smell  of  pig,  and  he  followed  it, 
swinging  his  black  head  as  he  sifted  out  the  invisible 
trail  from  others  on  the  wind. 

Marvellously  silent  is  a  Bear  going  through  the 
woods,  the  biggest,  bulkiest  of  them  pass  like  shad- 
ows, and  Kogar's  reached  the  Prunty  homestead 
swiftly  and  noiselessly,  led  at  last  to  the  little  pad- 
dock where  Foam,  the  author  of  the  guiding  smell, 
was  sleeping  with  his  head  across  the  woolly  back 
of  the  lamb.  * 

After  a  brief  survey  of  the  fence  the  Bear,  finding 
no  opening,  proceeded  to  climb  over.  But  it  was 
not  meant  for  such  a  bulk  of  flesh ;  the  paling  swayed, 
yielded,  and  fell,  and  the  Bear  was  in  the  paddock. 

If  Foam  had  been  slower,  or  the  lamb  had  been 
quicker,  everything  would  have  been  different. 
The  Bear  rushed  forward,  Foam  darted  aside,  the 
lamb  sat  still,  and  a  heavy  blow  from  the  Bear's 
paw  put  an  end  to  its  chance  of  ever  moving  just  as 
Foam  disappeared  through  the  hole  in  the  fence 
and  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  thicket. 

The  Bear's  march  was  soundless  indeed,  but  the 
crack  of  the  fence,  the  bleat  of  the  lamb,  the  rush 
of  that  charge,  the  scared  but  defiant  snort,  snort, 
snort  of  Foam  as  he  rushed  away,  made  noise  enough 

37 


365080 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hogf 

to  rouse  the  farmhouse,  for  it  was  in  truth  just  on 
their  rousing  time,  and  the  farmer  peered  forth  to 
see  a  big  black  Bear  scramble  over  the  fence  with 
the  lamb  in  his  jaws. 

Then  was  there  a  great  noise,  shouting  for  dogs, 
holloaing  for  men,  and  Prunty,  with  the  ready  rifle 
in  hand,  dashed  into  the  woods  after  the  Bear. 

How  slowly  a  caged  Bear  seems  to  hulk  around, 
how  little  does  it  let  us  know  the  speed  of  a  wild, 
free  Bear  on  rugged  ground.  The  brambles,  rocks, 
and  benches  seemed  designed  to  hinder  the  dogs, 
but  the  Bear  passed  swiftly  on.  Then  the  broad 
expanse  of  Kogar's  Creek  was  reached,  the  Bear 
launched  forth  to  swim  across.  The  strong  stream 
bore*him  swiftly  down.  It  was  pleasant  to  ride  the 
flood  and  see  the  banks  go  slipping  behind  him,  so 
lazily  he  rode,  till  the  hounds'  loud  baying  was  faint 
in  the  distance,  before  he  paddled  out  on  the  other 
side.  And  the  dogs  when  they  came  to  the  spot 
were  baffled,  nor  did  a  search  of  the  other  bank  shed 
any  light  on  the  mystery. 

Far  back  on  the  trail  they  found  the  body  of  the 
lamb. 

THE   SWAMP 

It  was  sport  for  the  men  and  fierce  joy  for  the 
dogs.  Lizette  alone  seemed  to  suffer  all  the  horror 

38 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

and  loss.    She  searched  the  little  paddock  in  vain, 
then  whistled  and  whistled. 

She  followed  the  trail  of  the  hunters  as  far  as  she 
could,  and  then  at  the  edge  of  a  thick  swamp  she 
stopped.  She  was  all  alone.  The  swamp  was 
open  water  or  mud;  it  seemed  foolish  to  go  on,  so 
she  listened  a  minute,  then  gave  two  or  three  sharp 
whistled  blasts.  A  soggy  noise  was  heard,  a  splash-  ^, 
ing  that  gave  her  the  creeps,  it  sounded  so  Bearlike.  T^ 
Then  a  grunt,  and  there  appeared  a  muddy  beast 
of  no  particular  shape,  but  surely  at  one  end  were 
two  small  blinking  eyes  and  from  somewhere  be- 
neath them  a  friendly  sounding  grunt.  Yes, 
surely  it  was,  no — yes,  now  she  was  sure,  for  the 
wanderer  had  shaken  off  most  of  the  mud  and  was 
upreared,  holding  his  two  forefeet  on  the  log  to 
have  his  hoofs  polished;  and  they  needed  it  as  never 
before,  nor  was  he  quite  content  till  Lizette  had 
taken  a  stick  and  carried  out  their  ancient  under- 
standing by  scratching  his  muddy  back. 

SMELL-POWER 

Only  the  animal  man  with  a  nose  can  understand 
the  masterfulness  of  smells,  how  through  the  mem- 
ory they  can  dominate  the  brain,  and  without  re- 
gard to  the  smell  itself  or  anything  but  the  mem- 
ories, be  things  of  joy  or  pain  or  fear.  Foam  had 

39 


Foam — A  Razor-Bacfcecl  Hog 

nearly  forgotten  his  early  days  and  his  mother's 
death,  but  his  nose  had  not,  and  the  smell  of  Bear 
had  brought  it  back,  and  driven  him  forth  in  a  ter- 
ror stampede. 

That  was  why  he  had  heard  without  heeding  the 
old,  familiar  whistle  call. 

But  the  fear  was  over  now;  therein  lies  courage, 
not  to  be  without  fear,  but  to  overcome  it.  And 
Foam  rioted  around,  circling  full  tilt  through  the 
bushes  around  Lizette,  stopping  short  and  stock- 
still  in  the  pathway,  head  down,  eyes  twinkling, 
till  Lizette  made  a  pass  at  him  with  a  stick.  Then 
away  he  went,  careering,  pirouetting,  and  snorting 
the  little  joy  snorts  that  in  pig  talk  stand  for  "Ha! 
ha!  ha!" 

Thus  they  neared  the  house,  when  all  at  once  the 
merry  pig  was  gone.  Foam  stood  like  a  pointer  at 
a  certain  spot.  His  bristles  rose,  his  eyes  snapped 
green,  and  his  jaws,  well  armed  already,  were  champ- 
ing till  they  foamed.  Lizette  came  near  to  stroke 
him;  he  stepped  aside,  still  champing,  and  now  she 
saw  and  understood:  they  were  crossing  the  fresh 
trail  of  the  Bear;  that  terrible  odour  was  on  it. 

But — and  this  escaped  Lizette  at  the  time — the 

actions  of  Foam  now  no  longer  told  of  fear;  that  he 

had  overcome:  this  pose,  his  deep-voiced  "woof," 

his  menacing  tusks,  his  green-lit  eyes,  though  he 

40 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

was  but  half  grown,  were  the  signs  of  a  fighting 
Boar.  She  little  guessed  how  much  the  spirit  in 
him  yet  might  mean  to  her.  Yes,  ere  two  moons 
had  waned  her  very  lif  e  indeed  was  doomed  in  at> 
sence  of  all  human  help  to  rest  in  keeping  of  that 
valiant  little  beast,  protected  only  by  the  two  small 
ivory  knives  he  bore,  and  the  heart  that  never  found 
in  fear  its  guide. 

THE  RATTLESNAKE 

October  is  summer  still  in  South  Virginia;  sum- 
mer  with  just  a  small  poetic  touch  of  red-leaf  time, 
and  Lizette,  full  of  romantic  dreams,  with  little 
daring  hopes  of  some  adventure,  too,  had  gone  up 
the  Kogar's  Creek  to  a  lonely  place  to  swim  in  the 
sluggish  bend.  She  was  safe  from  any  intrusion,  so 
did  not  hesitate  to  strip  and  plunge,  rejoicing  hi  the 
cooling  water,  as  only  youth  in  perfect  health 
can  do  when  set  in  a  perfect  time.  Then  she  swam 
to  the  central  sandbar  and  dug  her  pink  toes  into 
the  sand  as  she  courted  the  searching  sunbeams  on 
her  back. 

Satisfied  at  length,  she  plunged  to  swim  across 
to  the  low  point  that  was  the  only  landing  place,  and 
served  as  a  dressing-room.  She  was  halfway  over 
when  she  saw  a  sight  that  chilled  her  blood.  There 
coiled  on  her  snowy  clothes  with  head  upright, 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

regardant,  menacing,  was  a  Banded  Rattlesnake, 
the  terror  of  the  mountains,  at  home  in  woods  or  on 
the  water. 

It  was  with  sinking  heart  and  trembling  limbs 
that  Lizette  swam  back  and  landed  again  on  the 
sandbar. 

Now  what?  A  boy  would  have  sought  for  stones 
and  pelted  the  reptile  away,  but  there  were  no 
stones,  and  if  there  had  been,  Lizette  could  not 
throw  like  a  boy. 

She  did  not  dare  to  call  for  help,  she  did  not  know 
who  might  come,  and  she  sat  in  growing  misery  and 
fear.  An  hour  dragged  slowly  by,  and  the  reptile 
kept  its  place.  She  was  roasting  in  the  sun,  the 
torment  of  sunburn  was  setting  in.  She  must  do 
something.  If  only  father  would  come!  There 
was  just  a  chance  that  he  might  hear  her  whistle. 
She  put  her^fingers  in  her  teeth  and  sent  forth  the 
blast  that  many  a  Southern  woman  has  had  to 
learn.  At  first  it  came  out  feebly,  but  again  and 
again,  each  time  louder  it  sounded,  till  the  distant 
woods  was  reached,  and  she  listened  in  fear  and 
hope.  If  father  heard  he  would  know,  and  come. 
She  strained  her  ears  to  catch  some  sound  re- 
sponding. 

The  reptile  did  not  move.  Another  half-hour 
passed.  The  sun  was  growing  fiercer.  Again  she 

4* 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

gave  the  far-reaching  call;  and  this  time,  listening, 
heard  sounds  of  going,  of  trampling,  of  coming; 
then  her  heart  turned  sick.  Some  one  was  coming. 
Who?  If  it  were  her  father  he  would  shout  aloud. 
But  this  came  only  with  the  swish  of  moving  feet. 
What  if  it  should  be  one  of  those  half-wild  negro 
tramps!  "Oh,  father,  help!"  She  tried  to  hide 
as  the  sounds  came  nearer — hide  by  burying  her- 
self in  sand. 

The  reptile  never  stirred. 

The  bushes  swayed  above  the  steep  bank.  Yes, 
now  she  saw  a  dark  and  moving  form.  Her  first 
thought  was  a  "Bear."  The  bushes  parted,  and 
forth  came  little  Foam,  grown  somewhat,  but  a 
youngster  still.  Lizette's  heart  sank.  "Oh,  Foam, 
Foamy,  if  you  only  could  help  me!"  and  she  sent  a 
feeble  whistle  that  was  meant  for  her  father,  but 
the  Razor-back  it  was  that  responded. 

Passing  quickly  along  the  bank,  he  came.  There 
was  but  one  way  down.  It  led  to  the  little  sandy 
spit  where  lay  her  clothes,  and  her  deadly  foe. 

Overleaping  logs  and  low  brush  came  the  agile 
Razor-back.  He  landed  on  the  sand,  and  suddenly 
was  face  to  face  with  the  rattling,  buzzing  banded 
Death. 

Both  taken  by  surprise  recoiled,  and  made 
ready  for  attack.  Lizette  felt  a  heart  clutch,  to  see 


43 


"*^'>v     x 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

her  old-time  playmate  face  his  fate.  The  Boar's 
crest  arose,  the  battle  light  came  in  his  eyes, 
the  "chop,  chop"  of  his  weapons  sounded;  the  age- 
long, deep  instinctive  hatred  of  the  reptile  came 
surging  up  in  his  little  soul,  and  the  battle  fire  was 
kindled  there,  with  the  courage  that  never  flinches. 

Have  you  heard  the  short  chopping  roar  that 
rumbles  from  the  chest  of  a  boar  on  battle  bent — 
a  warcry  that  well  may  strike  terror  into  foemen 
who  know  the  prowess  that  is  there  to  back  its 
promise?  Yes,  even  when  it  comes  from  the  half- 
grown  throat  of  a  youngster,  with  mere  thorns  for 
tusks. 

In  three  short  raucous  coughs  that  warcry  came, 
and  the  Boar  drew  near.  His  golden  mane  stood 
up  and  gave  him  double  size.  His  twinkling  eyes 
shone  like  dull  opals  as  he  measured  up  his  foe. 
He  was  a  little  puzzled  by  the  white  garments,  but 
edging  around  for  a  better  footing,  he  came  be- 
tween the  reptile  and  the  stream,  and  thus,  unwit- 
tingly, he  ended  every  chance  of  its  escape,  i 

No  mother  but  Mother  Nature  taught  him  the 
moves.  Yet  she  was  a  perfect  teacher.  Nothing 
can  elude  the  Rattler's  strike.  It  baffles  the  eye; 
lightning  is  not  swifter.  Its  poison  is  death  to  all 
small  creatures  when  absorbed,  and  absorbents 
there  are  in  every  creature,  all  over  its  body,  except 

44 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

on  the  cheeks  and  shoulders  of  a  pig.  Presenting 
these  then,  Foam  approached.  The  Rattler's 
tail  buzzed  like  a  spinner,  and  his  dancing  tongue 
seemed  taunting.  With  a  clatter  of  his  ivory  knives 
and  a  few  short,  coughlike  snorts,  the  Razor-back 
replied,  and  approached  guardedly,  tempting  the 
snake  to  strike  at  its  farthest  possible  range.  Both 
seemed  to  know  the  game,  although  it  must  have 
been  equally  new  to  both.  The  snake  knew  that 
his  life  was  at  stake.  His  coils  grew  tighter  yet, 
his  baleful  eyes  were  measuring  the  foe.  A  feint, 
and  another,  and  a  counter  feint,  and  then — flash, 
the  poison  spear  was  thrown.  To  be  dodged?  No, 
no  creature  can  dodge  it.  Foam  felt  it  sting  his 
cheek,  the  dreadful  yellow  spume  was  splashed  on 
the  wound,  but  only  less  quick  was  his  sharp  up- 
jerk.  His  young  tusks  caught  the  reptile's  throat 
and  tossed  it  as  he  had  often  tossed  the  duckling, 
and  ere  the  poison  reptile  could  recover  and  recoil, 
the  Razor-back  was  on  him,  stamping  and  snorting. 
He  ripped  its  belly  open,  he  crushed  its  head, 
champing  till  his  face  and  jaws  were  frothed,  grunt- 
ing small  war-grunts,  and  rending,  nor  ceased  till 
all  there  was  left  of  the  death-dealer  was  evil-smell- 
ing rags  of  scaly  flesh  ground  into  the  polluted 
dust. 
"Oh,  Foam,  oh,  Foamy,  God  bless  you!"  was  all 

45 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog- 

Lizette  could  say.  She  almost  fainted  for  relief. 
But  now  the  way  was  clear.  A  dozen  strokes  and 
she  was  on  the  point  beside  the  Boar.  Una  had 
found  her  Lion  again. 

And  Foam,  she  hardly  knew  what  to  think  of 
him.    He  curveted  around  her  on  the  sand.    She 
almost  expected  to  see  him  sicken  and  fall;  then 
joyfully,    thankfully   she   remembered   what   her 
father   had   told  her  of   the   terrors   of 
snake-bite,  from  which  the   whole  hog 
race  was  quite  immune. 

"I  wish  I  knew  how  to  reward  you,"  she  said 
with  simple  sincerity.  Foam  knew,  and  very  soon 
he  let  her  know:  all  he  asked  in  return  was  this: 
"You  scratch  my  back." 

WILDWOOD  MEDICINE 

Are  the  wild  things  never  ill?  Is  disease  un- 
known among  them?  Alas!  we  know  too  well 
that  they  are  tormented  pretty  much  as  we  are. 
They  have  a  few  remedies  that  are  potent  to  help 
the  strong,  but  the  weak  must  quickly  die. 

And  what  are  the  healing  things  they  use?  How 
well  they  are  known  to  every  woodsman!  The 
sunbath,  the  cold-water  bath,  the  warm-mud  bath, 
the  fast,  the  water  cure,  the  vomit,  the  purge,  the 
change  of  diet  and  place,  and  the  rest  cure,  with 

46 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hogr 

tongue  massage  of  the  part  where  there  is  a  bruise 
or  an  open  wound. 

And  who  is  the  doctor  who  prescribes  the  time 
and  measure?  Only  this:  the  craving  of  the  body. 
Take  the  thing  and  so  much  of  it  as  is  agreeable; 
when  it  becomes  painful  or  even  irksome,  that  is 
the  body's  way  of  saying  "enough." 

These  are  the  healing  ways  of  animals,  these  are 
the  things  that  every  woodsman  knows.  These 
are  the  things  that  are  discovered  anew  each  gener- 
ation by  some  prophet  of  our  kind.  If  he  calls 
them  by  their  simple  names  he  is  mocked,  but  if 
he  gives  them  Latin  names,  he  is  a  great  scientist 
and  receives  world  rewards. 

Autumn  came  on  Mayo  Valley,  a  thousand  little 
yellow  fairy  boats  were  sailing  southward  on  Kogar's 
Creek,  and  the  "pat,  pat,  pit"  of  falling  nuts  was 
heard  through  all  the  woods.  Rich,  growing  food 
are  nuts,  and  Foam  was  busied  stuffing  himself 
each  day:  racing  perhaps  after  butterflies,  pretend- 
ing to  root  up  some  big  tree,  kneeling  to  swing  his 
head  and  gash  the  sod  with  his  growing  tusks,  spring- 
ing to  his  feet  to  bound  a  few  yards,  then  halt  in 
a  moment,  frozen  to  a  statue.  Rejoicing  in  his 
strength,  he  grew  more  strong,  and  the  skating  of 
the  final  leaves  that  left  the  trees  found  him  grown 
in  shank  and  jaw,  lank  and  light  as  yet,  but  framing 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

for  a  mighty  Boar.  The  tragedy  of  the  broken 
paling  in  the  fence  had  opened  up  a  larger  life  to 
him.  'Tis  ever  thus.  He  never  more  was  an  in- 
mate of  that  pen:  he  inhabited  Virginia  now. 

Down  in  the  black  muck  swamp  he  had  discov- 
ered the  trailing  ground-nut  vines,  and  when  he 
rooted  them  out,  his  nose  said,  "These  are  good." 
Yes,  he  remembered  dimly  that  his  mother  used 
to  eat  that  smell.  They  furnished  a  pleasant 
change  from  the  tree  nuts,  and  he  feasted  and  grew 
fat.  Then  he  rooted  out  another  old-time  root, 
with  a  fierce  and  burning  tang,  he  knew  that  with- 
out munching  it,  and  he  tossed  the  root  aside  with 
others  of  its  kind;  big,  fat,  and  tempting  to  the 
eye  they  were,  but  Foam  had  a  safer  guide. 

Then  gorged,  he  wandered  to  a  sunny  slope  and, 

grunting   comfortably,   dropped  flat  side  flop 

upon  the  leaves  in  lazy,  swinish  ease. 

A  bluejay  flew  just  above  and  shrieked,  "You 
rooter,  you  rooter!"  A  wood-pewee  snapped  flies 
above  his  ear,  a  bog-mouse  scrambled  over  his 
half-buried  leg,  yet  Foam  dozed  calmly  on. 

Then  afar  a  strange  sound  stirred  the  silence,  a 
deep-voiced,  wailing,  whining  "Wah-wah-wah, 
wow-w-w!"  then  almost  screaming,  then  broken 
by  sobs  and  snorts,  and  sometimes  falling  and 
muffled,  then  clear  and  near — the  strangest,  mad- 


FOAM   RA20RSACK   Es<j. 

VIRGINIA 

U.S.A 

*  THe  Woods" 


Foam— A  Razof-Backed  Hog 

dest  medley,  and  so  strong  it  must  be  the  voice  of 
some  great  forest  creature. 

Foam  was  on  his  feet  in  a  heart-beat,  and  stock- 
still  there  for  ten.  Now  nosing  like  a  pointer  with 
ears  acock,  with  every  sense  at  strain,  he  crept 
forward  like  one  spell-drawn. 

Slowly  back  to  the  rich  bottomland  the  weird 
sounds  led,  and  then  peering  through  the  wire 
grass  he  saw  his  ancient  foe,  rooting  up,  crunching, 
swallowing  one  after  another  those  terrible  burn- 
ing roots,  the  white  round  roots  that  sting,  that 
tear  your  very  throat,  that  gripe  your  bowels, 
that  wring  the  cheeks  with  torture  like  the  brands 
that  men  leave  in  the  smoking  summer  land. 

Yet  on  he  kept  digging,  munching,  weeping, 
wailing — digging  another,  munching  it  as  the 
tears  rolled  from  his  eyes,  and  the  burning  pain 
scorched  his  slobbering  jaws.  And  still  another 
did  that  great  black  monster  dig  and  mouth,  and 
wept  and  wailed  as  he  did  so,  and  another  and  an- 
other was  crowded  down  his  sobbing  throat. 

Was  he  insane?  Far  from  it.  Was  he  starving? 
Not  so;  the  ground  was  thick  with  nuts.  Then 
why  this  dreadful,  self-inflicted  pain?  Who  was 
his  master  that  could  order  it?  Foam  had  no 
thoughts  about  it.  The  Bear  himself  could  have 
told  you  nothing.  And  yet  he  was  yielding  to  an 

49 


Foam— A  Razot-Backed  Hog 

overmastering  inner  guide.  And  these  are  things 
we  think,  but  do  not  surely  know:  the  Bear  that 
seeks  only  meat  for  food  invites  a  dire  disease  that 
chiefly  hurts  the  skin,  and  doubly  those  who  make 
that  diet  flesh  of  swine. 

It  is  an  ailment  of  burning  skin;  the  body  seems 
in  torment  of  a  myriad  tiny  fires.  And  this  we 
think  we  know:  the  fiery  root  affords  relief — a  slow 
but  sure  relief. 

And  Foam,  a  youngster  yet,  afraid,  but  less 
afraid,  backed  slowly  from  the  field  a  little  puzzled, 
wholly  uncomprehending  anything  but  this:  his 
enemy  was  eating  roots  and  bawling  as  he  ate,  and 
still  was  bawling  out  aloud  when  Foam  was  far  away. 

SPRINGTIME 

It  was  a  bountiful  harvest  in  the  woods  that 
/year,  and  when  the  branches  were  bare,  the  chica- 
ree  had  seven  hollow  trees  crammed  with  nuts  and 
acorns,  and  a  well-lined  nest  near  each. 
.__,_!»    The  Muskrat  had  made  huge  haycocks  in  the 
r^frmarsh,  the  Woodchucks  were  amazing  fat,   and 
every  Tree-mouse  laid  up  food  as  for  a  three  years' 
famine.    The  warning  of  the  signs  so  clear  came 
true:  the  winter  was  hard  and  white. 

The  woods  had  been  mightily  pleasing  to  young 
Foam,  but  now  were  dull  and  dreary.  His  bristly 

So 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

hair  grew  long  and  thick  as  the  weather  cooled, 
but  not  enough;  a  colder  storm  set  in  and  Foam  at 
last  was  forced  to  seek  the  shelter  of  the  barn. 
There  were  other  pigs  about,  most  of  them  vulgar 
porkers  of  the  fat  and  simple  table  sort,  but  there 
were  also  one  or  two  aristocrats  of  the  real  Razor- 
back  strain.  At  first  they  were  somewhat  offish, 
inclined  to  thrust  him  aside  like  a  mere  pedigreed 
pig,  but  his  legs  were  stout  and  his  tusks  were 
sharp,  and  he  stood  quite  ready  to  make  good.  So 
by  steps  he  joined  himself  to  the  group  that  snug- 
gled under  the  barn  by  night  and  took  its  daily 
comfort  at  a  trough — kinsmen  mildly  tolerant  of 
each  other. 

The  winter  passed  and  sweet  Mistress  April  of 
the  little  leaves  was  nigh.  The  influence  of  the 
time  was  on  the  hills  and  in  the  woods;  it  even 
reached  under  the  barn  among  the  pigs  and  stirred 
them  up  to  life,  each  in  his  sort.  The  fat  porkers 
came  slowly  forth  to  the  sun,  placidly  grunting 
and  showing  a  mild  concern  in  such  things  of  inter- 
est as  came  in  range  of  their  low-level  vision. 

Foam  trotted  forth  like  a  young  colt.  How  long 
his  legs  had  grown!  How  big  he  was!  What 
shoulders  and  what  a  neck  of  brawn!  He  was 
taller  than  any  other  in  the  yard,  his  gold-red  hair 
was  rank,  and  on  his  neck  and  back  it  made  a  great 


Foam— A  Razot-Backed  Hog 

hyena  mane.  When  he  walked  there  was  spring 
in  his  feet,  alertness  in  his  poise,  and  the  logy 
porkers  seemed  downladen  with  themselves  as 
they  slowly  heaved  aside  to  let  him  pass.  The 
joy  of  life  was  on  him,  and  he  tossed  a  heavy  trough 
up  in  the  air,  and  curveted  like  a  stallion.  Then 
a  distant  sound  made  him  whirl  and  run  like  a 
mustang.  It  was  Lizette's  whistle.  They  had 
come  very  close  together  that  winter,  and  clear- 
ing the  low  wall  like  a  Deer,  Foam  reached  the 
door  to  get  a  special  dish  of  things  he  loved,  to 
have  his  back  scratched,  and,  last,  to  hold  up  his 
forefeet  for  a  rubbing,  if  not  indeed  each  time  for  a 
coat  of  polish. 

"That  Foam,  as  ye  call  him,  Lizette,  is  more 
dawg  than  hawg,"  Farmer  Prunty  used  to  say  as 
he  watched  the  growing  Razor-back  following  the 
child  or  playing  round  her  like  a  puppy — a  puppy 
that  weighed  150  pounds,  this  second  springtime 
of  his  life.  But  Foam  was  merely  reviving  the 
ways  of  his  ancestors,  long  lost  in  sodden  prison 
pens. 

GRIZEL  SEEKS  HER  FORTUNE 

It's  a  long  dusty  road  from  Dan  River  Bridge 
to  Mayo,  yet  down  its  whole  length  there  trotted 
a  sleek  young  Razor-back.  She  was  barely  full 

52 

6 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

grown,  shaped  in  body  and  limbs  like  a  Deer,  and 
clad  in  a  close  coat  of  glistening  grizzly  hair  that 
flashed  in  the  sun  when  the  weather  was  right,  but 
now  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  the  reddish  dust 
of  the  old  Virginia  highway. 

Down  the  long  pike  she  trotted,  swinging  her 
sensitive  nose,  cocking  her  ears  to  this  or  that 
sound,  running  some  trace  a  while,  like  an  eager  Fox, 
or  making  a  careful  smell  study  of  posts  that  edged 
her  trail,  or  marked  the  trails  of  offshoot. 

An  hour,  and  another  hour,  she  journeyed 
on,  with  the  steady  tireless  trot  of  a  searching 
Razor-back,  alert  to  every  promise  offered  by  her 
senses. 

The  miles  reeled  by,  she  was  now  in  Mayo  Val- 
ley, but  still  kept  on.  Now  she  found  a  good 
rubbing  post.  It  seemed  somewhat  pleasing  to 
her,  she  used  it  well,  but  soon  went  on. 

What  was  she  doing? 

How  often  we  can  explain  some  animal  act  by 
looking  into  ourselves.  There  comes  a  time  in 
the  life  of  every  man  and  woman  when  they  are 
filled  with  a  yearning  to  go  forth  into  the  world 
and  seek  their  fortune.  And  the  wise  say,  "Let 
them  go!"  This  same  impulse  comes  on  wild 
things,  and  the  wise  ones  go.  This,  then,  is  what 
Grizel  was  doing.  She  was  seeking  her  fortune. 

S3 


\1 


«f 

\\ 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

She  stopped  at  many  a  crossroad  and  / 
she  studied  many  a  faint  suggestion  on 
the  breeze,  but  she  still  kept  trotting  on, 
till  evening  saw  her  in  the  woods  that  lies 
beyond  the  lower  bridge  of  Kogar's  Creek.  ,  « 

THE  SCRATCHING  POST 

Of  all  the  scratching  posts  on 
Prunty's  farm  quite  the  best  was  the 
rough  old  cedar  corner  that  marks  the  farthest  point 
of  pasture  down  the  swale.  A  rough  trunk  for  a 
rough  corner,  so  it  still  bore  in  its  imperishable  sub- 
stance the  many  short  knots  of  its  living  days. 
They  made  a  veritable  comb  at  just  the  fittest 
height.  Every  pig  in  the  pasture  knew  it  well.  None 
passed  it  without  a  halt  to  claim  its  benevolence. 

The  Prunty  swine  were  loitering  near;  the  huge 
old  grandam  shouldered  another  back  so  she  might 
rub.  Then  Foam  came  striding  by.  His  strength 
and  tusks  had  weeks  past  given  him  right  of  way. 
He  neared  the  post.  Then,  shall  I  tell  it,  the  post 
sang  out  aloud,  yes,  sang  aloud,  in  a  tongue  that 
you  or  I  could  never  have  understood.  Even  could 
our  duller  senses  have  heard  it,  what  message  could 
we  get  from: 

"Klak-karra,  klak-karra 
Gorka-li-gorra-wauk?  " 

54 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

But  Foam,  whose  eyes  here  helped  him  not,  was 
all  ablaze.  Not  waiting  for  the  huge  old  hulking 
grandam  to  swing  away,  he  sent  her  rolling  down 
the  slope  with  the  armpit  heave  and  pitch  that 
the  wrestler  knows  makes  double  of  his  strength. 

The  gold-red  mane  on  his  back  stood  up  as  he 
nosed  and  mouthed  the  post,  then  he  raked  his 
flanks  against  it,  and  reared  and  rubbed  again;  ran 
forward  a  little  to  scan  the  trail,  came  back  to  rub 
in  a  new  excitement,  then  raced  like  a  Mad-moon 
buck,  and  came  again,  drove  others  from  the  post, 
and  circled  off  still  farther  in  the  woods. 

Then  nosing  a  trail  that  to  the  eye  said  nothing,  he 
followed  it  at  speed.  This  way  and  that,  then  ever 
more  sure,  sprang  through  a  swamp-wood  thicket  and 
into  a  sunny  open,  to  see  leap  also  from  the  screen  a 
slim  gray  form,  a  Razor-back,  one  of  his  own  high 
blood :  and  more,  his  nostrils  bade  him  know  that  this 
was  the  very  one  that  left  the  message  on  the  post. 

She  fled,  he  bounded  after.  Across  the  open 
stretch,  with  Foam  still  nearer,  a  keen-eyed  witness 
might  have  doubted  that  she  ran  her  fastest.  Who 
can  tell?  This  much  is  sure:  before  the  edge  of 
woods  was  reached  he  overtook  her,  and  she  wheeled 
and  faced,  uttering  little  puffs,  half  fear,  half  beg- 
ging for  release;  and  face  to  face,  a  little  on  the  slant 
they  stood,  strong  Foam  and  slim  Grizel. 

55 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

There  be  some  whose  loves  must  slowly  join 
their  lives,  who  must  overcome  doubts  and  try 
each  other  long  before  convinced.  And  there  be 
those  who  know  at  once  when  they  have  met  the 
one,  their  only  fate.  This  brief  decree  Foam  gath- 
ered from  the  post;  and  Grizel  was  sure  when  gently 
rubbing  on  her  cheeks  she  felt  the  ivory  scimitars 
that  are  the  proofs  and  symbols  of  the  other  mind. 

She  knew  not  what  she  went  that  day  to  seek, 
but  now  she  knew  she  had  found  it. 

THE   LOVERS 

The  barnyard  saw  no  more  of  Foam  for  days,  for 
he  wandered  in  the  pleasant  woods  making  close 
acquaintance  with  his  new-found  mate.  The  Red 
Squirrel  on  the  tree  limb  chattered  and  coughed 
betimes  as  though  to  let  them  know  that  he  was 
about,  but  they  sought  the  farthest  woods  and  so 
saw  little  but  its  shyest  native  folk. 

Then  one  day  as  they  wandered  a  strange  noise 
came  from  the  swamp.  Foam  moved  toward  the 
place,  with  Grizel,  hip  near,  following.  The  way 
was  down  the  hUl  toward  a  black  muck  swale. 
Coming  close  they  found  the  usual  belt  of  tall  ferns. 
Foam  pushed  through  these  and  in  a  moment 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  his  foe,  the  huge 
black  Kogar's  Bear. 

56 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

Foam's  mane  stood  up,  his  eyes  flashed  with 
green  fire,  his  jaws  went  "chop,  chop"  with  deep, 
portentous  sound.  The  Bear  rose  up  and  growled. 
He  should  have  felt  ridiculous,  for  he  was  coated 
with  mud  from  his  neck  to  the  tip  of  his  tail,  black, 
sticky,  smelly  mud,  the  muddiest  of  mud.  He  must 
have  wallowed  there  for  hours.  Yes,  the  Red  Squir- 
rel could  have  told  you  for  hours  on  many  different 
days.  He  was  taking  the  cure  that  the  wild  beast 
takes:  the  second  course,  the  one  that  follows  the 
purge. 

But  Foam  thought  not  of  that.  Here  was  the 
thing  he  hated  and  one  time  feared,  but  now  feared 
less  and  less.  Still  he  was  not  minded  to  risk  a 
fight — not  yet.  The  Bear,  too,  remembered  the 
day  of  his  mangled  paw  and  the  gaping  wounds 
in  his  side,  given  by  a  lesser  foe  than  this,  and  sul- 
lenly with  growl  or  grunt,  each  slowly  backed,  and 
went  his  divers  way. 

THE    WILDCAT 

You  see  That  turkey-buzzard  a  mile  up  yonder? 
He  seems  a  speck  to  you,  you  poor  blind  human 
thing,  but  he  has  eyes,  he  can  watch  you  as  he 
swings,  he  can  see  your  face  and  the  way  you  are 
looking,  and  also  he  can  see  the  Deer  on  the  moun- 
tain miles  away. 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

He  cannot  see  the  forest  floor,  for  the  leafy  roof 
is  over.  But  there  are  gaps  in  the  roof,  and  they 
often  give  a  peep  of  things  going  on  below.  So  the 
Turkey-buzzard  one  day  watched  a  scene  that  no 
man  could  have  seen. 

A  gray-brown  furry  creature  with  a  short  and 
restless  tail  came  glioling  down  a  little  forest  trail 
that  was  the  daily  path  of  many  creatures  seeking 
to  drink  at  the  river,  but  Gray-coat  ran  each  log 
that  lay  near  his  line  of  travel,  then  stopping  at  an 
upright  limb  that  sprang  from  the"great  pine  trunk 
which  made  his  present  highway,  he  halted  in  his 
slinking  pose,  rose  to  the  full  height  of  his  four  long 
legs,  raised  high  his  striped  head,  spread  his  soft 
velvety  throat,  white  with  telling  spots  of  black, 
rubbed  his  whiskers  on  the  high  branch,  rubbed  his 
back,  and  gazed  up  into  the  blue  sky,  displaying  the 
cruel,  splendid  face  of  a  mountain  Wildcat. 

In  three  great  airy  wheels  the  Vulture  swung 
down,  down,  watching  still  the  picture  through  the 
peephole  of  the  roof. 

The  Wildcat  scratched  his  chin,  then  his  left  cheek, 
then  his  right,  and  was  beginning  all  over  again 
when  a  medley  of  sounds  of  voices  and  of  many  feet 
was  heard  afar,  and  Gray-coat's  eager,  alert,  listen- 
ing poise  was  a  thing  of  power,  restraint,  and  of 
wondrous  grace. 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hogr 

The  Buzzard,  swinging  lower,  heard  them,  too. 

The  sounds  came  nearer;  Old  Gray-coat  of  the 
cruel  face  sprang  lightly  from  the  fallen  pine  to  the 
stump  where  once  it  grew;  there  with  the  wonderful 
art  of  the  beast  of  prey  he  melted  himself  into 
the  stump — became  nothing  but  a  bump  of  bark. 

The  sounds  still  grew.  Plainly  a  host  of  crea- 
tures  were  coming  down  the  game  trail.  The 
Wildcat  gazed  intently  from  his  high  lookout.  The 
lesser  cover  moved,  then  out  there  stepped  a  mother 
Razor-back  with  a  brood  of  jostling,  rustling, 
grunting,  playful  little  Razor-backs  behind  her. 
Straying  this  way  and  that,  then  bounding  to  over- 
take mother,  they  made  a  little  mob  of  roysterers; 
and  sometimes  they  kept  the  trail,  but  sometimes 
wandered.  Stringing  along  they  came,  and  the 
bobtailed  Tiger  on  the  stump  gazed  still  and  tense, 
with  teeth  and  claws  all  set,  for  here  was  a  luscious 
meal  in  easy  reach.  The  mother  passed  the  stump 
with  its  evil-eyed  watchman,  and  also  the  first  and 
second  of  the  rollicking  crew.  Then  there  was  a 
gap  in  the  little  procession,  and  the  Tiger  gathered 
himself  for  a  spring,  but  other  sounds  of  feet  and 
gruntings  told  that  more  were  coming,  and  they 
rollicked  after  mother;  another  gap,  and  last  and 
least  of  all,  the  runtie  of  the  brood. 

Everything  was  playing  the  Tiger's  game.    H« 

59 


Foam — A  Razot-Backed  Hog 

sprang.  In  a  moment  he  had  the  little  pig  by  the 
neck.  Its  scream  of  pain  sent  a  thrill  through  all 
the  band.  The  mother  wheeled  and  charged.  But 
the  big  cat  was  wise.  He  had  made  a  plan.  In 
one  great  scrambling  bound  he  was  high  and  safe 
on  the  pine  stump,  with  the  little  pig  squealing 
beneath  his  paws  where  he  held  it  tight  and  re- 
morselessly as  he  gazed  down  in  cruel  scorn  on  the 
tormented  mother  vainly  ramping  at  the  stump. 

At  her  highest  stretch  she  could  barely  touch  its 
top  edge.  Beyond  that  was  past  her  reach,  and 
the  big  cat  on  the  stump  struck  many  a  cruel  blow 
with  his  armed  paw  on  the  frantic  mother's  face. 
There  seemed  no  way,  no  hope  for  Runtie.  But 
there  was,  and  it  came  not  from  the  head  of  the 
procession,  as  the  cat  had  feared,  but  from  the  tail. 

The  Turkey-buzzard,  lower  yet,  not  only  saw  and 
heard,  but  even  got  some  of  the  sense  of  shock  the 
great  cat  got  when  the  bush  tops  jerked  and  swayed 
and  parted,  and  out  below  there  rushed  a  huge 
Wild  Boar. 

If  Cruel-face  had  been  at  all  cowed  by  the  raging 
mother,  he  would  have  been  terror  stricken  now, 
and  when  that  mighty  beast  rose  up  and  reared 
against  the  stump,  his  jaws  with  their  sabres  could 
sweep  halfway  over  the  top,  and  the  gray-coated 
villain  had  to  move  quickly  to  the  other  side,  and 
60 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

ever  change  as  the  Boar  rushed  around,  but  he 
never  lost  hold  on  the  baby  pig,  whose  squeals  were 
getting  very  feeble  now. 

Then  the  silent  Turkey-buzzard  and  the  noisy 
applauding  Red  Squirrel  saw  a  strange  thing  happen: 
The  stump  was  beyond  reach  of  the  Boar  at  his 
highest  stretch,  but  the  great  pine  log  was  there, 
and  three  leaps  away  was  a  thick  side  limb  that 
made  a  place  of  easy  ascent.  'Twas  here  the 
mother  scrambled  up,  then  along  the  log,  and  now 
with  a  little  leap  she  was  on  the  stump  and  con- 
fronting the  Tiger. 

He  faced  her  with  a  horrible  snarl,  a  countenance 
of  devilish  rage;  to  scare  her  was  his  intent.  What, 
scare  a  mother  Razor-back,  whose  young  is  scream- 
ing "Mother,  Mother,  help  me!"  She  went  at 
him  like  a  fury.  The  stinging  blow  of  his  huge 
paw  was  nothing  to  the  lunge,  slash,  and  heave  she 
launched  with  all  her  vim,  and  the  Tiger  tumbled 
from  the  stump  with  a  howl  of  hate,  and  landed  on 
the  ground,  and  leaped  and  might  have  escaped, 
but  the  biggest  of  the  brood,  its  warrior  blood  stirred 
up  by  all  this  war,  seized  his  broad  paw  and  held 
him  just  a  moment — just  enough,  for  now  the  Boar 
was  there. 

Oh,  horrors!  what  a  shock  it  is,  even  when  the 
fallen  foe  is  one  we  hate!  The  mighty  rush  of  the 
61 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

Boar,  the  click  of  weapons,  the  hideous  rumbled 
hate,  the  animal  heaving  sounds,  the  screech  and 
chop,  the  flying  mist  of  hair,  the  maze  of  swift  and 
desperate  act,  the  drop  to  almost  calm,  then  the 
slash,  slash,  slash  with  sounds  of  rending  pelt  and 
breaking  bone,  and  tossing  of  a  limp  form  here  and 
there,  or  the  holding  of  it  with  both  forefeet  while 
it  is  mangled  yet  again. 

The  Boar  grew  calm,  his  battle  madness  went, 
and  the  little  pigs  came,  one  by  one,  to  sniff  and 
snort  and  run  away.  They  had  added  another  that 
day  to  their  catalogue  of  smells. 

And  Runtie,  he  was  lying  deep  in  the  brush  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stump.  His  mother  came  and 
nosed  him  over  and  nudged  him  gently  and  walked 
away  and  came  again  to  nudge.  But  the  brothers 
were  lively  and  thirsty:  she  must  go  on  with  them. 
She  raged  against  the  fierce  brute  that  had  killed 
her  little  one.  She  lingered  about,  then  led  the 
others  to  the  brook.  Then  they  all  came  back. 
The  little  ones  were  once  more  merry  and  riotous. 
The  mother  came  to  nudge  and  coax  the  limp  and 
bloody  form,  but  its  eyes  had  glazed.  The  father 
tossed  the  furry  trash  aside,  and  then  all  passed  on. 

These  things  the  Turkey-buzzard  saw,  and  I 
would  I  had  his  eyes,  for  this  was  a  chapter  in  the 
story  of  Foam  and  Grizel  that  was  told  only  by  the 
62 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

silent  little  signs  that  it  takes  a  hunter's  eyes  to  se« 
and  read. 

THE  PORK-EATING  BEAR 

Why  does  pork-eating  become  so  often  a  mania? 
Why  does  it  commonly  end  in  dire  disease?  We 
do  not  know.  We  have  never  heard  of  such  pen- 
alties with  any  animal  foods  but  pork.  Surely  the 
fathers  of  the  church  were  wise  who  ruled  that  their 
people  touch  it  not  at  all. 

The  Kogar's  Bear  was  a  pork-eater  now.  His 
range  was  all  the  valley  where  there  were  pigs,  and 
his  nightly  resort  was  some  pig-pen  where  the  fat 
and  tender  young  porkers  were  an  easy  prey,  far, 
far  better  to  the  taste  and  much  safer  to  get  than 
the  bristle-clad  young  rooters  of  the  Razor-back 
breed.  He  seemed  to  know  just  when  and  where  to 
go  to  avoid  trouble  and  find  sucklings.  Of  course 
he  did  not  really  know,  but  each  time  he  raided 
some  pig-pen  the  uproar  of  hounds  and  hunters  for 
a  day  or  more  after  induced  him  to  seek  other  pas- 
tures, and  when  he  happened  on  them  his  nose  was 
sure  to  guide  him  to  the  pen  of  fatling  pigs.  Traps 
were  set  for  him,  but  avoided,  because  he  never 
went  twice  to  the  same  pen.  So  the  combination 
of  shyness  and  keen  smelling  looked  like  profound 
sagacity,  yet  we  must  not  scoff  at  it,  for  it  gave  re- 

63 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

suits  that  seemed,  and  were,  in  a  sense,  the  very 
same. 

Is  it  not  a  curious  fact  that  those  who  give  up  to 
a  craze  for  some  special  meat  always  learn  to  prefer 
it  a  little  "high,"  and  "higher,"  and  finally  are 
not  well  pleased  unless  the  food  is  positively  tainted 
— a  mass  of  vile  corruption?  And  this  they  learn 
from  the  old-time  animal  habit  of  burying  food 
when  they  have  more  than  they  need  at  once. 

Thus  it  was  that  Scab-face,  striding  dark  and 
silent  through  the  woods  by  the  branch,  led  by  a 
smell  he  loved  came  on  the  unburied  body  of 
Runtie.  The  mother  was  away  perforce  with  her 
living  charge. 

The  Turkey-buzzard  had  not  touched  it,  for  it 
was  fallen  under  brushwood.  The  orange  and 
black  sexton  beetles  were  not  there;  it  had  not 
yet  come  in  their  department.  It  was  a  windfall 
for  the  Bear. 

Reaching  his  long  scabby  nose  into  the  thicket, 
he  pulled  it  out,  carried  it  a  little  way,  then  digging 
a  hole  he  buried  it  deep  to  ripen  for  some  future 
feast. 

Wild  animals  usually  remember  their  "cache," 
as  the  hunters  call  it,  and  come  to  the  place  when 
they  chance  in  the  neighborhood  to  see  if  it  is  all 
right.  Thus  Kogar's  called  next  day. 

64 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

When  a  wild  animal  loses  near  and  dear  ones  at 
a  given  place  it  goes  to  that  place  afterward  for 
days  to  "mourn,"  as  the  Indians  say.  That  is, 
if  they  are  passing  near,  they  turn  aside  to  sniff 
about  the  place,  and  utter  deep  moans  or  paw  up 
the  ground,  or  rub  the  trees  for  a  few  moments, 
then  pass  on.  The  mourning  is  loudest  the  earli- 
est days,  and  is  usually  ended  by  the  first  shower 
of  rain,  which  robs  the  place  of  all  reminiscent 
smells. 

One  day  had  gone  since  Runtie's  end,  and  Grizel, 
passing  on  the  trail,  came  now  to  mourn.  And 
thus  they  met. 

When  a  Razor-back  is  much  afraid  it  gives  the 
far-reaching  tribal  call  for  help.  When  it  is  not 
afraid  it  gives  the  short  choppy  warcry  and  closes 
with  the  enemy;  and  this  is  where  Grizel  made  a 
sad  mistake.  She  gave  the  warcry  and  closed. 
The  Bear  backed  and  dodged.  They  circled  and 
sparred.  The  Bear  would  have  gladly  called  a 
halt,  though  he  was  far  bigger  and  stronger,  but 
Grizel  was  bolstered  up  by  the  smell  memories 
of  the  place.  Her  mother  love  was  her  inner 
strength,  and  still  she  closed;  the  Bear  still  backed 
till  they  neared  the  open  space  that  lies  along  the 
high  cut  bank  over  the  stream.  Now  was  GrizePs 
chance,  with  open  level  ground;  she  charged.  The 

65 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

Bear  sprang  aside  and  struck  with  his  armed  paw. 
Had  the  blow  landed  on  her  ribs  it  might  have 
ended  her  power,  but  it  was  received  on  her  solid 
shoulder  mass.  It  sent  her  staggering  back,  and 
as  she  went  she  gave  the  loud  shrilling  call  for  help, 
the  call  she  should  have  given  at  first,  the  blast  that 
stirs  the  blood  of  the  Razor-back  who  hears  it  as 
the  coast  patrol  is  stirred  by  the  cry  for  help.  And 
again  she  fronted  the  Bear.  Slowly  turning  this 
way  and  that,  they  faced  each  other,  each  watching 
for  a  chance.  Grizel  made  a  feint,  the  foe  swung 
back,  she  charged.  The  Bear  recoiled  a  little, 
braced,  then  swung  and  dodged,  then  as  she  passed 
he  struck  a  mighty  blow  that  hurled  her,  badly 
bruised  and  struggling,  down  the  slope  three  leaps 
away,  and  over  the  cut  bank,  to  splash  into  the 
stream  below. 

She  could  swim  quite  well,  but  loved  it  not.  She 
splashed  as  she  struck  out,  and  gave  no  cry,  for 
the  blow  had  robbed  her  of  her  wind.  Then  the 
kindly  stream  bore  her  quickly  down  to  a  far  and 
easy  landing. 

A  moving  in  the  bushes,  a  large  animal  sound, 
and  on  the  bank  there  loomed  a  bulk  of  reddish 
black.  Grizel  now  scrambled  out  and  with  the 
low  short  sounds  of  recognition  they  came  together. 
But  Foam  had  come  a  little  late.  The  Bear  was 
66 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

gone,  and  gone  with  a  new-found  sense  of  triumph, 
Scab-face  had  vanquished  a  full-grown  Razor-back. 

HILL  BILLY  BOGUE 

Jack  Prunty  was  raging.  He  walked  around  his 
new  garden  that  morning  using  language  that  is 
never  heard  nowadays  except  perhaps  on  the  golf 
links,  certainly  not  permissible  elsewhere.  Here 
were  lines  of  lettuce  gone  and  whole  patches  of 
beets  and  watermelons.  The  asparagus  bed, 
though  not  in  active  service,  was  trampled,  while 
the  cabbage  patch  was  simply  ruined. 

His  negro  help  was  careful  to  point  out  that  all 
the  damage  was  by  "hawgs" — this  to  prevent  any 
suspicion  lighting  on  the  innocent.  But  it  was 
not  necessary.  The  broken  fence,  the  myriad 
hoofmarks  and  bites  taken  out  of  turnips  and 
cabbage  were  proof  enough;  no  blame  could  rest 
on  the  negro  or  his  kin. 

Jack  Henty  was  raging.  He  walked  around  his 
ample  barnyards  that  morning  uttering  Virgin- 
ianisms,  as  his  faithful  negro  foreman  pointed  out 
(to  prevent  mistakes)  that  the  Bear  had  gone  here 
and  there,  and  here  had  carried  off  the  thoroughbred 
pedigreed  imported  Berkshire,  hope  of  its  race;  and 
it  wasn't  the  first  they  had  lost,  for 
Henty  and  his  friends  had  other  pens, 

67 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

and  in  many  raids  their  losses  had  been  heavy. 
But  this  was  the  climax.  The  sow  on  which  his 
hopes  were  built  was  the  victim  selected  by  the  Bear. 
This  is  why  Hill  Billy  Bogue  received  two  in- 
vitations in  one  day  to  come  with  his  "houn' 
dawgs"  and  win  immortal  fame  as  the  defender  of 
gardens  and  pens. 

There  were  reasons  for  favoring  Prunty.  Henty 
was  little  loved:  he  was  too  rich  and  grasping, 
and  had  used  harsh  language  toward  Bogue,  with 
threats  of  law  for  crimes  that  certainly  had  been 
committed  by  some  one  near. 

So  Hill  Billy  appeared  at  the  Prunty  home  with 
five  gaunt  dogs  and  a  new  sense  of  social  uplift. 
Much  as  the  undertaker  dominates  all  the  house- 
hold at  a  funeral,  so  Hill  Billy  at  once  assumed 
the  air  and  authority  of  a  commander  and  expert. 
"Ho,  ho!    Wall  I  be  goshed! 
Look  at  them  for  tracks — a  hull 
family.       Gee   whiskers! 
what  an  ole  socker!    I  bet 
./^  yeh  that  was  a  fo'-hunder- 

pound  Boar." 

"Oh,  daddy,"  cried   Lizette,  "do   you 
suppose  it  was  Foam?  " 

"Don't  care  if  it  was,"  said  Prunty.    "We  can't 
stand  this  destruction;  it's  a  case  of  stop  right  now." 
68 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

The  hunter  kept  on  his  examination  of  the  trail. 
He  was  a  shiftless  old  vagabond,  useless  for  steady 
work,  and  a  devotee  of  the  demijohn,  but  he  cer- 
tainly knew  his  business  as  a  tracker.  He  an- 
nounced, "Just  a  regulation  ole  Razor-back  family, 
a  long-legged  sow,  a  hatchin'  o'  grunters,  and  a 
Boar  as  big  as  a  chicken  house." 

The  fence  was  little  more  than  a  moral  effect. 
Conscientious  cows  and  incompetent  ducks  it 
might  keep  out,  but  to  a  Razor-back  it  was  prac- 
tically an  invitation  to  attempt  and  enjoy.  Some 
such  thought  was  in  Lizette's  mind  when  she  said, 
"Daddy,  why  can't  we  make  a  real  fence,  and  a 
strong  one  that  no  pig  could  break  through?  It 
would  be  easy  around  three  acres." 

"Who'll  pay  for  it?"  said  Prunty.  "An'  what's 
the  use  of  a  Razor-back  anyway?  They're  no 
good." 

"Wall,"  said  the  great  man  who  was  now  com- 
bining Napoleon,  Nimrod,  and  Sherlock  Holmes, 
"didn't  ye  hear  about  the  three  little  kids  at  Coe's 
school  struck  by  a  rattler  and  all  died  this  week, 
the  hull  three  of  'em?  Rattlers  is  getting  mighty 
thick  up  thet-a-way.  Folks  says  it's  all  cause  they 
cleaned  out  the  Razor-backs,  and  I  guess  that's  the 
answer  all  right." 

Then  Napoleon  Nimrod  Holmes  Bogue  began 
69 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

to  run  the  hoofmarks  through  the  woods.  The 
wanderings  of  the  band  had  ceased.  All  here  had 
followed  the  leader,  so  it  was  easy  to  keep  the  trail 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Hill  Billy  kept  it;  then, 
sure  of  the  main  fact,  he  went  back,  unchained  the 
five  gaunt  hounds,  worshipped  in  libation  to  his 
god,  took  rifle  in  hand,  and  swung  away  with  the 
long,  free  stride  of  the  woodsman. 

Prunty  was  to  head  direct  for  Kogar's  Hill,  and 
then  guided  by  the  sounds  in  the  valley  below  make 
for  the  spot  where  the  clamor  of  the  dogs  an- 
nounced at  length  that  the  Razor-backs  were  at  bay. 

Lizette  went  with  her  father. 

THE  HOG  WARRIOR  AND  THE  HOUNDS 

The  hounds  showed  little  interest  for  a  while, 
for  the  trail  was  cold,  but  Hill  Billy  kept  them  to 
it  for  a  mile  or  two.  Then  there  were  plenty  of 
signs  of  a  pig  band's  recent  visit,  and  Billy  was 
relieved  of  the  labor  of  trailing,  for  now  the  scent 
was  fresh,  and  the  hounds  grew  keen. 

Then  loud  musical  baying  rang  in  the  forest  as 
they  trailed  and  blew  their  hunting  blasts.  There 
were  sounds  of  going  in  the  distance,  of  rushing 
through  grass  and  thickets,  and  short  squeals, 
and  some  deeper  sounds  more  guttural,  and  ever 
the  baying  of  the  hounds. 
70 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

The  chase  swung  far  away,  and  Billy  had  much  ado 
to  follow.  Then  the  sounds  were  all  at  one  place, 
and  Billy  knew  that  the  climax  was  at  hand,  the  mo- 
ment of  all  that  the  hunter  loves,  when  the  fighting 
quarry  is  at  bay,  and  ready  for  a  finish  fight. 

The  baying  of  the  hounds  was  changed  as  he 
hurried  near;  now  it  was  a  note  of  fear  in  some; 
then  there  was  an  unmistakable  yell  of  pain,  and 
again  the  defiant  baying  that  means  they  are 
facing  a  quarry  that  they  hold  in  deep  respect. 

Forcing  his  way  through  the  thick  brushwood, 
Billy  got  within  twenty  yards  of  the  racket,  but 
still  saw  nothing. 

"Yap,  yap,  yap,  yip,  yip,  yow,  yow,"  went  the 
different  dogs.  Then  sounded  the  deep-chested 
"Gruff,  gruff"  of  a  huger  animal,  and  a  wee,  small 
sound,  a  "click,  click."  Oh,  how  little  it  seemed, 
but  how  much  it  meant — the  click  of  a  Razor- 
back's  tusks — the  warning  that  comes  from  a 
fighting  Boar.  The  baying  moved  here  and  there, 
then  the  bushes  swayed,  there  was  a  sound  of 
rushing,  there  were  hound  yells  of  pain  and  fear, 
and  a  yelping  that  went  wandering  away  to  t&e 
left,  and  another  unseen  rush  with  a  deep-toned 
"Howrrr"  and  nothing  to  be  seen.  It  was  mad- 
dening, his  dogs  being  killed,  and  he  could  take  no 
part 

71 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hogr 

Bogue  rushed  recklessly  forward.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  was  facing  a  scene  that  stirred  him.  He 
saw  the  huge  hog  warrior  charge,  he  saw  the  flash- 
ing scimitars  of  golden  white,  he  saw  but  two  dogs 
left — then  only  one,  the  mongrel  of  the  pack,  and 
the  Razor-back,  sighting  his  deadliest  foe,  dashed 
past  the  dog  and  charged.  Up  went  the  rifle,  but 
there  was  no  chance  to  aim;  the  ball  lodged  harm- 
lessly in  the  mud. 

Now  Billy  sprang  aside,  but  the  Boar  was  near, 
was  swifter,  stronger,  less  hindered  by  the  brush. 
The  hunter's  days  would  have  ended  right  there 
but  for  the  remaining  dog,  who  seized  the  Razor- 
back  by  the  hock,  and  held  on  as  for  dear  life. 

Hill  Billy  saw  his  chance.  Plunging  out  of  the 
dangerous  thicket  to  the  nearest  tree,  he  swung 
himself  up  to  a  place  of  safety,  as  the  Boar,  having 
slashed  this  wastrel  of  the  pack,  came  bristling, 
snorting  and  savage,  to  ramp  against  the  harbor- 
ing tree,  and  speak  his  hatred  of  the  foe  in  raucous, 
deep-breathed,  grating  animal  terms. 

LIZETTE  AND  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

What  joy  it  is  to  be  in  a  high  place  and  see  the 
great  leafy  world  at  our  feet  below.  What  joy 
on  a  hunt,  to  hear  the  stirring  hunting  cry;  to 
know  that  some  great  beast  is  there,  and  now  we 

72 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

may  try  our  mettle  if  we  will.  Some  memory  of 
his  youth  came  back  on  him  as  Prunty  with  Li- 
zette held  eager  barkening  to  the  chase.  How 
clear  and  close  it  sounded,  and  when  the  baying 
centred  at  one  spot  Old  Prunty  was  like  a  boy,  and, 
rushing  as  he  should  not  at  his  age,  he  stumbled, 
slid,  and  fell,  giving  himself  a  heavy  shock,  and 
hurting  his  ankle  so  badly  that  he  sat  down  on 
a  log  and  railed  in  local  language  at  his  luck. 

The  baying  of  the  hounds  kept  on.  He  tried  to 
walk,  then  realizing  his  helplessness,  he  exclaimed: 
"Here,  Lizette,  you  hurry  down  to  Bogue  and  tell 
him  to  hold  back  for  me  as  long  as  he  can.  I'll 
follow  slowly.  You  better  carry  the  gun." 

So  Lizette  set  off  alone,  guided  only  by  the 
clamor  of  the  hounds.  For  twenty  minutes  it 
was  her  sufficient  guide,  then  it  seemed  to  die 
away.  Then  there  were  a  few  yelps  and  silence. 
Still  she  kept  on,  and,  hearing  nothing,  she  gave 
a  long  shout  that  Bogue  up  the  tree  did  not  hear; 
so  she  tried  another  means,  her  whistle,  and  judg- 
ing that  the  other  hunter  was  coming  to  his  rescue, 
Bogue  shouted  many  things  that  she  could  not 
understand. 

Then,  seeking  guidance  from  his  voice,  and 
offering  guidance  to  her  father,  she  whistled  again 
and  again.  It  reached  them  both,  but  it  also 

73 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

reached  another.  The  great  Boar  raised  his  head. 
He  ceased  to  ramp  and  growl.  He  gave  an  in- 
quiring grunt.  Then  came  anew  the  encouraging 
whistle. 

From  his  high,  wretched  perch  Bogue  saw  Li- 
zette  suddenly  appear  alone  but  carrying  the 
rifle,  and  mount  a  log  to  get  a  view.  He  shouted 
out: 

"Look  out!  He's  going  your  way!  Get  up  as 
high  as  you  can  and  aim  straight!" 

It  was  all  so  plain  to  him,  he  did  not  understand 
why  she  should  be  in  doubt.  But  she  gave  another 
loud  whistle.  A  great  red-maned  form  came 
quickly  through  the  bushes,  uttering  a  very  familiar 
soft  grunt.  At  first  she  was  startled,  then  it  be- 
came clear. 

"Foam,  Foam,  Old  Foamy!"  she  cried,  and  as  the 
huge  brute  came  trotting,  his  bristling  crest  sank 
down.  He  reared  upon  the  log.  He  whispered 
hog-talk  in  his  chest,  he  rubbed  his  cheek  on  her 
foot,  he  moved  his  shoulder  hard  against  the  log, 
and  then  held  up  his  mighty  hoofs  arow  for  the 
pleasant  rub  that  one  time  meant  "French  polish." 
Nor  did  he  rest  content  till  their  ancient  pact  was 
carried  out,  and  Lizette  had  scratched  his  broad 
and  brawny  back.  Sitting  on  the  log  beside  him, 
she  scratched  while  Bogue  in  the  tree  screamed 

74 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

warnings  and  urgings  to,  "Shoot,  shoot,  or  he'll 
kiU  you!" 

"Shoot,  you  fool!"  she  snorted.  "I'd  as  soon 
think  of  shooting  my  big  brother;  and  Foam 
wouldn't  harm  me  any  more  than  he  would  his 
little  sister." 

So  the  wild  beast  was  tamed  by  the  ancient 
magic,  and  presently  the  big  Boar,  grunting  com- 
fortably,  went  to  his  woods  and  was  seen  that  day 
no  more. 

THE  BEAR  CLAIMS  ANOTHER  VICTIM 

Yes,  the  Bear  came  back  on  a  later  day  to  his 
cache  beside  the  river  and  the  scene  of  his  victory; 
there  robbed  the  Vultures  and  had  his  horrid  feast. 
He  lingered  in  the  neighborhood,  and  thus  it 
was  that  fortune  played  for  him.  When  next 
the  Razor-back  crew  came  rooting  and  straggling 
through  the  woods,  the  mother  ahead  and  father 
too  far  astern  to  be  a  menace,  they  came  to  the 
fording  place  of  the  river.  The  little  ones  loved 
it  not,  held  back,  but  mother  pushed  on  ahead, 
had  almost  to  swim  in  the  middle.  The  family 
lingered  on  the  bank  with  apprehensive  grunts. 
One  by  one  they  screwed  up  their  courage  for  the 
plunge,  till  only  one  was  left.  Finding  himself 
alone,  he  set  up  a  very  wail  of  distress.  j 

75 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

It  reached  other  ears.  Old  Kogar's  knew  the 
cry  of  a  lost  porker.  The  voice  was  so  small  that 
his  own  valor  was  big.  He  glided  swiftly  that 
way.  The  mother  pig,  minded  to  teach  her  young- 
ster a  lesson  of  prompt  obedience,  paid  no  heed 
to  his  cry,  but  went  on. 

The  left-behind  one  squealed  still  louder.  The 
bank  above  his  head  crumbled  a  little  under  a 
heavy  tread.  There  was  the  thud  of  a  mighty 
blow,  and  the  little  pig  was  stilled.  Then  the 
long  head  and  neck  of  Kogar's  reached  down  and 
picked  him  from  the  mud.  Swiftly  passing  up 
the  bank,  following  up  the  slope  of  a  leaning  tree, 
he  landed  on  a  high  ledge,  and  so  passed  over  the 
hill. 

On  the  other  side,  safer  than  he  knew  even,  he 
sat  to  mouth  and  maul  the  victim,  and  to  think  in 
his  own  unthinking  way,  "Sweet  indeed  is  wood- 
land pork.  The  creatures  are  not  so  strong  and 
dreadful  as  they  seemed  to  me  once.  I  fear  them 
no  longer.  I  will  henceforth  kill  and  eat." 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  HILL  BILLY 

When  Hill  Billy  got  home  that  night  he  found 
three  of  his  hounds  awaiting  him,  one  of  them 
badly  cut  up  in  body,  the  others  very  badly  cut  up 
76 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

in  spirit,  for  the  interest  they  thenceforth  took  in 
hunting  Razor-backs  was  a  very  small,  cold,  dying, 
near-dead  thing.  And  start  them  fairly  as  he 
would  it  was  aggravating  to  find  how,  soon  or 
late,  they  took  some  side  or  crossing  trail  that  ended 
where  a  Coon,  perhaps,  had  climbed  a  tree,  or  a*-'^ 
'Possum  sought  the  safe  retreat  of  a  crevice  far 
in  a  rock. 

Hill  Billy  might  have  gone  to  the  shack  of  a 
rival  hunter  and  borrowed  more  effective  hounds, 
but  that  would  have  been  admitting  that  his  own 
were  cowards  and  failures.  His  pride  revolted 
at  the  thought.  He  was  a  true  hunter  at  heart, 
not  easily  balked;  he  was  strong  and  crafty,  too, 
and  quite  able  to  run  a  trail  if  it  seemed  worth 
such  an  effort.  So  when  a  new  message  came  from 
Prunty  with  a  new  tale  of  destruction  and  promises 
of  wealth  for  successful  service,  he  answered: 
"Wait  till  it  comes  a  good  rain,  then  IU1  take  the 
trail  myself.  I'll  show  ye." 

And  this  was  why  the  morning  after  the  first 
heavy  rain  that  memorable  still  hunt  was  organized. 
Only  Prunty  and  Bogue  took  part.  The  hunter 
didn't  want  a  crowd;  this  was  a  still  hunt.  Li- 
zette's  appeals  for  peace  and  a  real  fence  were 
ignored.  "You  shall  have  his  ivories  for  a  brace- 
let; I'll  get  a  gold  band  put  on,"  was  the  bribe 

77 


ft 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

her  father  offered,  nearly  as  much  to  buy  off  him- 
self as  his  daughter. 

ft  THE  DAY  OF  JUDGMENT 

?*    Heavy  rain  wipes  out  all  previous  tracks.    It 
makes  the  new  track  deep  and  strong.    It  stills 
)  all  rustling  leaves  or  crackling  twigs.    After  heavy 
-  rain  a  good  hunter  needs  no  hound.    Away  they 
went,  Hill  Billy  and  Prunty,  each  taking  a  rifle  often 
proved,  for  both  were  riflemen.    They  differed  little 
in  age,  but  Prunty  was  sore  pressed  to  keep  up 
with  the  lank,  lithe  hunter  who  strode  ahead  scan- 
ning every  yard  of  ground  for  some  telltale  sign.  ' 
Down  in  the  swamp  were  ancient  marks  now 
dim  with  rain.    All  they  said,  and  said  it  feebly, 
was,  "Yes,  but  some  days  back." 

So  the  hunters  coursed  along  the  swamp  edge 
and  down  the  branch,  then  over  the  low  hills,  and 
on  to  Kogar's  Creek,  and  Prunty,  breathless, 
called  a  halt.  Hill  Billy  kept  on,  and  within  a 
mile  had  found  what  he  sought  so  hard,  the  trail 
of  a  band  of  Razor-backs.  He  followed  but  a 
little  way,  till  he  also  found  their  leader's  four-inch 
track,  that  made  the  rest  look  trivial. 

"Yo,  ho!"  he  shouted  back  to  Prunty.  "I've 
got  him!  Come  on!"  and  Billy  was  off  with  no 
thought  for  anything  but  the  track. 

78 


Foam — A  Razot-Backed  Hog 

Prunty  struggled  along  behind,  but  the  pace  was 
overhot  for  him.  The  answering  shouts  from 
Hill  Billy  became  very  faint;  so,  tired  and  wrathy, 
Prunty  sat  down  on  a  log  to  rest  and  wait  for 
something  to  turn  up. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed.  He  was  breathed, 
and  feeling  better  now,  but  there  was  no  guiding 
sound  to  tell  of  the  hunter's  whereabouts.  An- 
other quarter  of  an  hour,  and  Prunty  left  his  log  to 
seek  the  high  lookout  of  Kogar's  Hill.  And  getting 
there  after  a  slow  tramp,  he  sat  again  to  wait. 

Nearly  an  hour  in  all  had  gone,  when  down  in  the 
swale  by  the  branch  that  fed  the  Kogar's  Creek 
he  heard  mixed  sounds  of  something  moving  in  the 
low  woods,  and  he  made  for  the  place. 

After  a  short  time  he  stopped  to  listen,  and 
heard  only  the  "jay,  jay"  of  the  Bluejay.  Then 
once  in  the  silence  came  the  unmistakable  shrill- 
ing of  a  pig  in  distress,  the  call  for  help.  Once  it 
came,  and  all  was  still. 

Prunty  pushed  forward  as  quickly  as  he  could, 
and  as  silently.^  He  was  nearing  the  open  woods 
along  the  Kogar's  Creek. 

There  were  confused  noises  ahead,  sounds  of 
action  rather  than  of  voices,  but  sometimes  there 
came  voices,  too:  animal  voices,  voices  that  told 
of  many  and  divers  living  things. 

79 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

Prunty  conjured  up  all  the  woodcraft  of  his 
youth.  He  sneaked  as  a  Panther  sneaks,  lifting  a 
foot  and  setting  it  down  again  only  after  the 
ground  was  proven  safe  and  silent.  He  wet  his 
finger  to  study  the  wind,  or  tossed  up  grass  to 
show  the  breeze,  and  changed  about  so  as  to  make 
an  unann°unced  approach.  He  strode  swiftly 
in  the  open  places,  and  looking  well  to  his  rifle 
came  through  a  final  thicket  where  a  huge  down 
tree  afforded  a  high  and  easy  outlook,  and  mount- 
ing its  level  trunk  he  saw  the  setting  for  a  thrill- 
ing scene — a  face  to  face  array  of  force,  like  hosts 
arrayed  for  battle  in  the  olden  times,  awaiting  but 
the  word  of  onset. 

There,  black  and  fierce,  was  a  Bear,  a  Bear  of 
biggest  bulk,  standing  half  out  in  the  open,  and 
facing  him  some  dozen  steps  away  was  a  Boar,  a 
Razor-back  of  the  tallest  size,  but  smaller  than  the 
Bear,  and  bearing  a  long  scar  on  his  face.  Behind 
and  beside  the  Boar  was  a  lesser  Razor-back,  with 
the  finer  snout  and  shorter  tusks  of  the  female. 
Hiding  in  the  near  thicket  of  alder  were  others  of 
their  breed.  At  first  Prunty  thought  but  two  or 
three,  then  more  were  seen,  some  very  small,  till 
it  seemed  a  little  crowd,  not  still,  but  moving  and 
changing  here  and  there. 

Then  the  Bear  strode  in  a  circle  toward  the  other 
80 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog:  il 

side  of  the  bush,  but  the  Boar  swung  round  between,  i 

and  the  little  pigs,  rushing  away  from  the  fearsome  *  , 

brute,  made  many  a  squeak  and  haste  to  move, 
went  quickly  indeed,  save  one,  who  dragged  him-  / 

self  like  a  cripple;  and  red  streaks  there  were  on  his  -^   • 
flank  as  well  as  a  dark  smear  on  his  neck.  ff^^~Q 

Thus  the  pair  stood  facing,  each  still  and  silent.  ^^  *J  \ 
Just  a  little  curl  there  was  on  the  scabby  nose  of  the~ 
big  Bear,  for  this  was  the  brute  of  Kogar's  Creek, 
and  sometimes  deep  in  his  chest  he  rumbled  as  you 
hear  the  thunder  rumble  in  the  hills  to  say  it  will  be 
with  ye  soon.  And  the  Boar,  high  standing  on  his 
wide-braced  legs,  made  bigger  by  the  standing 
mane  on  his  crested  back,  his  snout  held  low,  his 
twinkling  eyes  alert,  his  great  tusks  gleaming,  and 
his  jaws  going  "chop,  chop  "  till  the  foam  that  gave 
him  his  baby  name  was  flecked  on  the  massive 
jowl. 

The  little  pigs  in  the  thicket  uttered  apprehen- 
sive grunts,  but  the  big  one  bade  his  time,  without 
a  sound  save  the  "chop"  or  "click"  of  his  war 
gear. 

There  was  a  minute  of  little  action,  as  the  great 
ones  stood,  prepared,  and  face  to  face. 

Who  can  measure  the  might  of  their  moving 
thoughts:  the  Bear  urged  only  by  revenge  or  the 
lust  of  food,  and  backed  by  many  little  victories; 
81 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

the  Boar  responding  to  the  scream  for  help  that  stirs 
the  fighting  Boar  as  the  fire  bell  stirs  the  fire  hall 
horse,  hastening  with  all  the  self-forgetfulness  of  a 
noble  nature  to  help  one  of  his  kind,  and  rinding 
it  one  of  his  brood,  his  very  own,  and,  more,  being 
harried  indeed  by  one  he  held  in  lifelong  hate? 
Thus  every  element  was  here  supplied  for  a  fright- 
ful clash.  Power,  mighty  power,  lust,  insanity,  and 
a  doubtful  courage,  against  lesser  power  with  match- 
less courage,  and  the  lungs  and  limbs  of  a  warrior 
trained — Kogar's  Bear  and  Foam  of  the  Prunty 
Farm. 

The  big  Bear  moved  slowly  to  one  side,  then 
swung  in  a  circle  around  the  bush,  whether  to  make 
a  flank  attack  on  the  Boar,  or  to  strike  at  the  young, 
mattered  not;  for  each  way  the  great  hog  swung 
between,  resolute,  head  down,  wasting  no  force  in 
mere  bluster,  silent  but  waiting,  undismayed. 

Then  the  Bear  moved  to  the  other  side,  mounted 
a  log,  grunted,  was  minded  to  charge,  put  one  paw 
down  this  side  the  log,  and  Foam  charged  him.  The 
Bear  sprang  back.  The  Boar  refrained.  Another 
swing,  a  feint,  and  the  Bear  rushed  in.  Ho !  Scab- 
face,  guard  yourself,  this  is  no  tender  youngling 
you've  engaged. 

Thud  thud — thud — went  the  Bear's  huge  paws, 
and  deep,  short  animal  gasps  of  effort  came.    The 
82 


Foam — A  Rasot-BackecJ  Hog 

Boar's  broad  back,  all  bristle-clad,  received  the 
blows;  they  staggered  but  did  not  down  him,  and 
his  white  knives  flashed  with  upward  slash,  the 
stroke  that  seeks  the  vitals  where  they  are  least 
ingirt  with  proof.  The  champions  reeled  apart. 
The  Boar  was  bruised,  but  the  Bear  had  half  a 
dozen  bleeding  rips.  Great  sighs,  or  sobs,  or  heavy 
breathings  there  were  from  these,  but  from  the 
crowded  younglings  just  behind,  a  very  chorus  of 
commingled  fear  and  wrath. 

This  was  the  first,  the  blooding  of  the  fight,  and 
now  they  faced  and  swung  this  way  and  that. 
Each  knew  or  seemed  to  know  the  other's  game. 
The  Boar  must  keep  his  feet  or  he  was  lost,  the  Bear 
must  throw  the  Boar  and  get  a  death  grip  with  his 
paws  ere  with  his  hinder  feet  he  could  tear  him 
open.  The  battle  madness  was  on  both. 

Circling  for  a  better  chance  went  Kogar's,  con- 
fronted still  by  the  Boar.  Again  they  closed,  and 
the  Bear,  flinging  all  his  bulk  on  Foam,  would  have 
thrown  him  by  his  weight,  but  the  Boar  was  stout 
and  rip-ripped  at  the  soggy  belly,  till  the  Bear 
flinched,  curled,  and  shrank  in  pain.  Again  and 
again  they  faced,  sparring  for  an  opening.  The 
Bear  felt  safer  on  the  log.  On  that  he  stood,  and 
strode  and  feinted  a  charge,  till  Foam,  impatient 
for  the  finish,  forward  rushed.  The  log  was  in  the 

83 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

way.  He  overleaped  it,  but  this  was  not  his  field. 
The  trunks  that  helped  the  Bear  were  baulks  to 
him.  Again  they  closed,  and  springing  on  his  back 
the  Bear  heaved  down  with  all  his  might.  Slash, 
slash,  went  those  long,  keen,  ivory  knives.  The 
Bear  was  gushing  blood,  but  Foam  was  going  down; 
the  fight  was  balanced,  but  the  balance  turning  for 
the  Bear.  When  silent,  save  for  the  noise  of  rush- 
ing, another  closed,  another  struck  the  Bear — Grizel 
was  on  him  with  her  force,  the  slashing  of  her  knives 
was  quick  and  fast;  the  Bear  lurched  back.  She 
seized  his  hinder  paw  and  crunched  and  hauled; 
Foam  heaved  the  monster  from  his  back,  and  turned 
and  slashed  and  tore.  The  Bear  went  down! 
Oh,  Furies  of  the  woods!  What  storm  of  fight! 
The  silent  knives  or  their  click — the  deep-voiced 
sob  of  pain  and  straining,  the  half -choked  roar,  the 
weakening  struggle  back,  the  gasp  of  reddened 
spray,  the  final  plunge  to  escape,  the  slash,  the 
tear,  the  hopeless  wail — and  down  went  Kogar's 
with  two  like  very  demons  tearing,  rending,  carving. 
He  clutched  a  standing  tree-trunk  that  seemed  to 
offer  refuge.  They  dragged  him  down.  They 
slashed  his  hairy  sides  till  his  ribs  were  grated  bare. 
They  rent  his  belly  open,  they  strung  his  bowels 
out  over  the  log  like  wrack  weed  in  a  storm.  They 
knived  and  heaved  till  the  dull  screams  died,  all 

84 


Foam — A  Razor-Backed  Hog: 

movement  ceased,  and  a  bloody,  muddy  mass  was 
all  that  was  left  of  the  Kogar's  Bear. 

And  Prunty  gazed  like  one  who  had  no  thought 
of  time  or  space,  or  any  consciousness  but  this:  he 
was  fighting  that  fight  himself.  He  watched  the 
strong  hog  warrior  win,  and  felt  the  victory  was  his 
own.  He  loved  him:  yes,  loved  him  as  a  man  of 
strength  must  love  a  brave,  hard  fighter.  He  saw 
the  great,  big-hearted  brute  come  quickly  to  him- 
self, turn  wholly  calm,  and  the  little  pigs  come  fear- 
fully to  root  and  tear  at  the  fallen  foe,  then  rush 
away  in  fright  at  some  half-fancied  sign  of  life. 
He  saw  the  gentleness  the  mates  showed  each  to 
each,  and  ever  there  were  little  things  that  told  of 
a  bond  of  family  love.  Animal,  physical  love,  if 
ye  will,  but  the  love  that  endures  and  fights,  and 
still  endures.  And  the  man  looked  down  at  the 
thing  that  his  hands  were  clutching,  the  long,  shiny, 
deadly  thing  for  murder  wrought,  and  ready  now 
prepared.  A  little  sense  of  shame  came  on  him, 
and  it  grew.  "He  saved  my  HI'  gel,  and  this  was 
my  git-back."  Then,  again,  with  power  returned 
the  feelings  of  the  day  when  his  Lizette,  the  only 
thing  he  had  on  earth  to  love,  came  home  ablaze 
to  tell  of  the  rattlesnake  fight — with  power  these 
feelings  came,  and  he  was  deeply  moved  as  then. 
Her  words  had  sudden  value  now.  Yes,  she  was 

85 


Foam— A  Razor-Backed  Hog 

right.    There  were  other  and  better  ways  to  save 

the  crops. 
His  mannish  joy  in  force  and  fight  rose  in  him 

strong,  and  he  blustered  forth: "  Gosh,  what  a  scrap! 
)  That  was  the  satisfyingest  fight  I  ever  seen.  My! 
*"  how  they  tore  and  heaved!  "Kill  him?  Gosh!  you 

bet,  for  me,  he  can  roam  the  swamps  till  he  dies  of 

a  gray  old  age." 


The  great  Boar's  mate  turned  now  to  lead  the 
brood  away.  They  rollicked  off  in  quick  forget- 
f  ulness,  the  wounded  one  came  last,  except  that  very 
last  of  all  was  Foam,  with  many  rips  that  stood 
for  lifelong  scars,  but  strength  unspent;  and  as  he 
swung,  he  stopped,  and  glancing  back,  he  saw  his 
foe  was  still,  quite  still,  so  went. 

The  frond  ferns  closed  the  trail,  the  curtain 
dropped.  And  the  Vultures  swung  and  swung  on 
angle  wings,  for  here  indeed  was  a  battlefield,  and  a 
battlefield  means  feasting. 


86 


-• 

v 


^rv^ 

-  . 

~~f. 


ffl 

Way-Atcha,   the   Coon- 
Raccoon  of  Kilder  Greek 


m 

Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon  of 
Kilder  Creek 

OTHER  Nature,  All-mother,  maker 
|x  of  the  woods,  that  made  and  re- 
*  jected  the  Bear — too  big,  the  Deer — 
/  too  obvious  and  too  helpless  in 
snow,  the  Wolf — too  fierce  and 
flesh-devouring,  not  deeming  them 
the  spirit  of  the  timberland,  and  still 
essayed,  till  the  Coon-Raccoon,  the  black-masked 
wanderer  of  the  night  and  the  tall  timber,  respon- 
sive from  the  workshop,  came;  and  dowered  him 
with  the  Dryad's  gifts,  a  harmless  dweller  in  the 
hollow  oak,  the  spirit  of  the  swamps  remotest  from 
the  plow,  the  wandering  voice  that  redmen  know, 
that  white  men  hear  with  superstitious  dread. 

Oh,  help  thy  Singing  Woodsman  tell  about  the 

Coon,  his  kindness,  his  fortitude,  his  joy  in  his 

hollow  tree,  that  the  farmer  spared  because  it  wa? 

so  hollow,  and  about  the  song  he  sings  as  he  wan- 

89 


\ 


\   J  Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

Y  ders  in  the  night,  and  why  he  sings,  and  why  the 
1 )    woodsman  loves  his  wild  and  screaming  yaup,  even 
s*    as  he  loves  the  Indian  Song  that  holds  in  its  bars 
y.  the  spirit  of  the  burning  wood. 
V,    If  you  will  help  him  tell  these  things  and  make 
J'them  touch  the  world  as  they  have  touched  him, 
**;  the  unspeakable  forester  shall  not  work  to  the  bitter 
end  his  sordid  way,  the  hollow  tree  shall  stand,  and 
the  ring-tailed  hermit  of  the  woods  not  pass  away, 
''  nor  his  wind-song  in  the  Mad  Moon  cease. 

If  he  has  a  message,  we  know  it  not  in  formal 
phrase,  but  this  perhaps:  He  is  symbol  of  the  things 
that  certain  kindly  natures  love;  and  if  the  nation's 
purblind  councillors  win  their  evil  way,  so  his 
hollow  tree  with  himself  should  meet  its  doom,  it 
means  the  final  conquest  of  the  final  corner  of  our 
land  by  the  dollar  and  its  devotees.  Grant  I  may 
long  be  stricken  down  before  it  comes. 

THE  HOME-SEEKERS 

March,  with  its  ranks  of  crows  and  rolling  drum 
calls  from  the  woodwale,  was  coming  in  different 
moods  to  own  the  woods.  The  sun  had  gone,  and 
a  soft  starlight  on  the  slushy  snow  was  bright 
enough  for  the  keen  eyes  of  the  wood-prowlers. 
Two  of  them  came;  quickly  they  passed  along  a 
lying  trunk,  through  the  top  of  the  fallen  tree, 
90 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

across  the  snow  to  follow  each  convenient  log  as  a 
sort  of  sidewalk.  They  were  large  animals — that 
is,  larger  than  a  Fox — -of  thick  form,  with  bushy 
tails  on  which  the  keen  night  eyes  of  a  passing  Owl 
could  see  the  dark  bars,  the  tribal  flag  of  their  kind. 

The  leader  was  smaller  than  the  other,  and  at 
times  showed  a  querulous  impatience,  a  disposition 
to  nip  at  the  big  one  following,  and  yet  seemed  not 
to  seek  escape.  The  big  one  came  behind  with 
patient  forbearance.  The  singing  woodsman,  had 
he  seen  them,  would  have  understood:  these  were 
mates.  Obedient  to  the  animal  rule,  all  arrange- 
ments for  the  coming  brood  were  in  the  mother's 
control.  She  must  go  forth  to  seek  the  nursing 
den;  she  must  know  the  very  time;  she  alone  is 
pilot  of  this  cruise.  He  is  there  merely  to  fight  in 
case  they  meet  some  foe. 

Down  through  the  alder  thicket  by  the  stream 
and  underbrush,  and  on  till  they  reached  the  great 
stretch  of  timber  that  was  left  because  the  land  was 
low  and  poor.  Much  of  it  was  ancient  growth,  and 
the  Coon-Raccoon — the  mother  soon  to  be — passed 
quickly  from  one  great  trunk  to  another,  seeking, 
seeking — what? 

The  woodsman  knows  that  a  hollow  pine  is  rare, 
a  hollow  maple  often  happens,  and  a  hollow  bass- 
wood  is  the  rule.  He  might  have  found  the  har- 


Jfer" 


Way-Atcha,  the  Gx>n-Raccoon 


f*  t*r  J  boring  trunk  in  broad  daylight,  for  a  hollow  tree 
has  a  dead  top,  but  in  the  gloom  the  Coon  seemed 
to  go  from  one  great  column  to  the  next  with  cer- 
tainty, and  knew  without  climbing  them  if  they  were 
not  for  her;  and  at  last  by  the  bend  where  the  creek 
and  river  join,  she  climbed  the  huge  dead  maple, 
like  one  who  knows. 

This  is  the  perfect  lodgment  of  Coon-Raccoon — 
high  up  some  mighty,  towering  tree  in  some  deep, 
dangerous  swamp,  near  running  water  with  its 
magic  and  its  foods,  a  large,  convenient  chamber, 
dry  and  lined  with  softest  rotten  wood,  a  tight-fit 
doorway,  and  near  it  some  great  branch  which  gets 
the  sun's  full  blaze  in  day.  This  is  the  perfect  home, 
and  this  was  what  the  mother  Coon  had  found. 

THE  HOME 

In  April  the  brood  had  come,  five  h'ttle  ones, 
ring-tailed  and  black-masked  like  their  parents. 
Their  baby  time  was  gone,  and  now  in  June  they 
were  old  enough  to  come  out  on  bright  days,  and 
sit  in  a  row  on  the  big  limb  that  was  their  sunning 
place.  Very  early  in  life  their  individual  char- 
acters appeared.  There  was  the  timid  one  whose 
tail  was  a  ring  too  short,  the  fat  gray  one  that  was 
last  to  leave  the  nest,  and  the  very  black-masked 
one  who  was  big,  restless,  and  ready  to  do  anything 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

but  keep  quiet,  the  one  that  afterward  was  named 
Way-atcha.  In  their  cuddling  nursery  days  the 
rules  of  Coon  life  are  simple.  Eat,  grow,  keep 
quiet — all  the  rest  is  mother's  business.  But  once 
they  are  old  enough  to  leave  the  nest  they  begin  to 
have  experiences  and  learn  the  other  rules. 

The  sunning  perch  was  free  for  all,  and  the 
youngsters  were  allowed  to  climb  higher  in  the 
tree  among  the  small  branches,  but  below  the  nest 
was  a  great  expanse  of  trunk  without  any  bark 
on,  and  quite  smooth,  a  very  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous place  to  climb,  and  whenever  one  of  the 
youngsters  made  a  move  downward,  mother  ordered 
him  back  in  sharp,  angry  tones. 

Way-atcha  (his  mother  called  him  "Wirrr"  the 
same  as  the  others,  but  with  a  little  more  vigor  to 
it)  had  been  warned  back  twice  or  thrice,  but  that 
made  him  more  eager  to  try  the  forbidden  climb. 
His  mother  was  inside  as  he  slid  below  the  sunning 
limb  on  the  rough  bark  and  on  to  the  smooth  trunk. 
It  was  twenty  times  too  big  for  his  arms  to  grip, 
and  down  he  went,  clutching  at  anything  within 
reach — crash,  scramble,  down,  down,  down,  and 
splash  into  the  deep  water  below. 

Startled  by  the  sudden  gasp  of  the  others,  the 
mother  hurried  forth  to  see  her  eldest  splashing 
in  the  brook.  She  hurried  to  the  rescue,  but  the 

93 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

stream  lodged  him  against  a  sandbar,  he  scrambled 
out  little  the  worse,  and  made  for  the  home  tree. 
Mother  was  halfway  down,  but  seeing  him  climb 
she  returned  to  the  row  of  eager  faces  on  the  branch 
above. 

Way-atcha  went  up  bravely  till  he  reached  the 
tall  smooth  trunk  where  there  was  no  bark,  and 
here  he  absolutely  failed,  and  giving  way  to  his 
despair,  uttered  a  long,  whining  whimper.  Mother 
was  back  at  the  hole,  but  she  turned  now  and 
coming  down,,  took  Way-atcha  by  the  neck  rather 
roughly,  placed  him  between  her  own  forelegs, 
carried  him  round  the  smooth  trunk  to  the  side 
where  there  were  two  cracks  that  gave  a  claw-hold, 
and  there  boosted  and  kept  him  from  falling  while 
she  spanked  him  all  the  way  home. 

SCHOOLING  THE  CHILDREN 

It  was  two  weeks  later  or  more  before  mother 
|  judged  it  time  to  take  them  down  into  the  big  world, 
and  then  she  waited  for  a  full  moon.  Old  Coons 
can  do  very  well  on  a  black  night,  but  they  need 
some  light,  especially  at  the  beginning  of  the  young 
one's  training. 

Father  went  down  first  to  be  ready,  in  case  some 
enemy  was  near,  and  now  the  youngsters  were 
taught  the  trick  of  the  smooth  trunk.  There 

94 


"Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

was  only  one  place  to  climb  it  safely:  that  was 
where  the  two  cracks  made  it  possible  to  get  claw- 
holds  well  apart.  Mother  went  first  to  show  the 
way,  and  the  youngsters  followed  behind. 

Everything  was  new  and  surprising  to  them, 
everything  had  to  be  smelt  and  handled,  stones, 
logs,  grass,  the  ground,  the  mud,  and,  above  all 
things,  the  water.  The  bright  uncatchable  water 
was  puzzling  to  all  except  of  course  Way-atcha 
who  knew,  or  thought  he  knew  it,  already. 

The  youngsters  were  full  of  glee,  they  chased 
each  other  along  logs  and  tumbled  each  other  into 
little  holes,  but  mother  had  brought  them  for 
something  more  serious.  They  had  to  get  their 
first  lesson  in  earning  a  living,  and  this  she  gave 
them  mainly  by  example. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  Coon  feeding?  His  way 
is  to  stand  by  a  pool,  put  in  both  hands,  groping 
in  the  mud  with  quick  and  sensitive  fingers,  hunt- 
ing for  frogs,  fish,  crabs,  etc.,  while  his  eyes  rove 
the  woods  far  and  near,  right  and  left,  to  look  for 
other  chances  or  to  guard  against  possible  enemies. 
This  was  mother's  way,  and  the  youngsters  looked 
on,  more  interested  in  the  catch  than  in  the  mode. 

Then  they  crowded  up  close  to  see  better,  which 
meant  they  lined  up  along  the  water's  edge.  It 
was  so  natural  to  put  their  hands  in  the  water  that 

95 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

at  once  they  were  doing  as  mother  did.  What  a 
curious  sensation  to  feel  the  mud  sliding  between 
one's  fingers;  then  perhaps  a  root  like  a  string, 
then  a  round  soft  root  that  wriggles.  What  a  thrill 
it  gives!  For  instinctively  one  knows  that  that 
is  game,  that  is  what  we  are  here  for.  And  Way- 
atcha,  who  made  the  find,  clutched  the  pollywog 
without  being  told,  seized  it  in  his  teeth  and  got 
chiefly  a  mouthful  of  mud  and  sand.  He  sput- 
tered out  everything,  mud,  pollywog,  and  all. 
Mother  took  the  flopping  silver-belly,  gravely 
washed  it  in  the  clear  water,  and  gave  it  back  to 
be  gobbled  by  Way-atcha.  Now  he  knew.  Thence- 
forth he  dropped  easily  into  the  habit  of  his  race, 
and  every  bite  was  religiously  washed  and  cleaned 
before  being  eaten.  The  shy  brother  with  the 
short  tail  was  too  timid  to  go  far  from  mother, 
and  what  he  learned  was  little.  The  other  two 
were  quarrelling  over  a  perfectly  worthless  old 
bone.  Each  "found  it  first,"  and  the  winner  had 
a  barren  victory.  Grayback  was  far  out  on  a  log 
over  the  water,  trying  to  claw  out  the  reflection 
of  the  moon,  but  Way-atcha,  intoxicated  by  suc- 
cess, was  now  keen  to  keep  on  hunting.  Down 
along  the  muddy  margin  he  paddled,  eagerly  glanc- 
ing this  way  and  that,  just  like  mother,  feeling 
in  all  the  mud,  straining  it  through  his  fingers,  just 
96 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

like  mother,  lifting  up  a  double  handful  to  smell, 
just  like  mother,  clutching  at  some  worthless  root 
that  seemed  to  wriggle,  then  sputtering  it  out  with 
a  growl,  just  like  father.  It  was  fun,  every  bit  of  it, 
and  when  at  length  his  active  little  ringers  clutched 
the  unmistakable  smooth  and  wriggly  body  of  a 
frog  that  was  hiding  in  the  mud,  Way-atcha  got 
such  a  thrill  of  joy  that  all  the  hair  on  his  back  stood 
up,  and  he  gave  the  warwhoop  of  the  Coon-Rac- 
coon, which  is  nothing  more  than  a  growl  and  a  snort 
all  mixed  up  together.  It  was  a  moment  of  tri- 
umph, but  Way-atcha  did  not  forget  the  first  lesson, 
and  that  frog  was  washed  as  clean  as  w&ter  could 
make  him  before  the  hunter  had  his  feast. 

This  was  intensely  exciting,  there  was  limitless 
joy  in  view,  but  a  sudden  noise  from  father  changed 
it  all.  He  had  been  scouting  far  down  the  river 
bank  while  the  youngsters  played  along  the  creek 
near  mother.  Now  he  gave  a  signal  that  mother 
knew  too  well,  a  low  puff,  like  "Foof,"  followed 
by  a  deep  grunt.  Mother  called  the  youngsters 
with  a  low  grunting.  They  knew  nothing  at  all 
of  what  it  was  about,  but  the  sense  of  alarm  had 
spread  instantly  among  them,  and  a  minute  or 
two  later  there  was  a  regular  procession  of  furry 
balls  climbing  the  great  maple,  following  the  two 
cracks,  right  up  to  tumble  into  their  comfortable  bed. 

97 


J\ 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

Faraway  down  the  river  came  a  deep  booming 
sound,  the  roaring  of  some  terrible  animal,  no 
doubt.  Mother  listened  to  it  from  the  door.  Pres- 
ently father  came  scrambling  up  the  trunk  a  little 
wet,  because  he  had  swum  the  river,  after  laying 
a  trail  to  take  the  enemy  away,  and  had  come 
home  by  a  new  road  along  the  top  of  a  fence,  so 
that  no  trail  was  left  and  the  baying  of  that  awful 
hound  was  lost  faraway  in  the  woods. 

That  night  Way-atcha  had  met  and  felt  some 
of  the  big  things  that  shape  a  Coon's  life:  the 
moonlight  hunt,  the  vigilant  mother,  the  fighting 
father,  the  terrible  hound,  the  safe  return  home 
protected  by  a  break  in  the  trail.  But  he  did 
not  think  about  it.  He  remembered  only  the  joy 
of  clutching  that  fat,  wriggling,  juicy  frog,  and  next 
night  he  was  eager  to  be  away  on  another  hunt. 

THE   MYSTERIOUS  WARNING 

Many  animals  have  a  sixth  sense,  a  something 
that  warns  them  that  there  is  danger  about,  a 
something  that  men  once  had,  and  called  "a  far 
sense  of  happenings"  or  a  "sense  of  luck."  This 
seems  to  be  strongest  in  mothers  when  they  have 
their  young.  And  when  the  next  night  came  Way- 
atcha's  mother  felt  uneasy.  There  was  something 
wrong.  She  delayed  going  down  the  round  stair- 
98 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon      . 

way  and  lay  watching  and  listening  on  the  sunning 

branch  till  every  one  was  very  cross  and  hungry.  ?   1 

Way-atcha  was  simply  overcome  with  impatience.  c^<^  ta*pWAp"c        "^ 

Father  went  down  the  trunk  but  soon  came  up     ^^  ^     1 

again.    The    children    whimpered,    but    mother  fm  -i— ^ 

refused  to  budge.    Her  quick  ears  were  turned  !    ] 

once  or  twice  toward  the  river,  but  nothing  of 

note  was  heard  or  seen.    The  moon  had  set,  and 

at  length  in  the  darkest  hours  the  mother  led  her 

family  down  the  big  trunk.    All  were  hungry, 

and  they  rushed  heedlessly  along  the  bank,  dab-  ( 

bling  and  splashing.    Then  Way-atcha  caught  a 

frog,  and  little  Ring  Short  a  pollywog.    Then  all 

had  caught  frogs,  and  it  seemed  the  whole  world 

was  one  big  joyous  hunt  without  a  care  or  a 

worry. 

Now  out  on  a  sandbar  Way-atcha  found  a  new 
kind  of  frog.  It  looked  like  two  flat  bones  lying 
side  by  side,  but  the  smell  was  pleasant.  He 
reached  out,  and  at  once  the  two  bones  closed  to- 
gether on  his  toes,  squeezing  them  so  hard  that  he 
squalled  out,  "Mother,  Mother!"  Mother  came 
running  to  help,  of  course,  while  Way-atcha  danced 
up  and  down  in  pain  and  fear.  But  the  old  one 
had  seen  mussel  clams  before.  She  seized  the 
hard  thing  in  her  teeth,  crushed  the  hinge  side,  and 
ended  the  trouble.  Now  Way-atcha  had  the 

99 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

pleasure  of  picking  out  the  meat  from  the  sharp 
bits  of  shell,  washing  them  clean  in  the  river,  and 
gobbling  them  as  a  new  kind  of  frog,  and  every- 
thing seemed  very  well  to  him. 

But  father  climbed  a  root  and  snuffed,  sniffed, 
and  listened,  and  mother  studied  all  the  smells 
and  trails  that  were  along  the  pathway  farther 
from  the  river  bank.  She  had  had  little  time  for 
hunting.  Her  secret  sense  was  strong  on  her,  and 
she  gave  the  signal  to  return. 

The  youngsters  followed  very  unwillingly.  Way- 
atcha  was  almost  rebellious.  There  seemed  in  his 
judgment  to  be  every  reason  for  staying  and  none 
whatever  for  going  home.  But  the  best  of  judg- 
ment must  yield  to  superior  force.  Mother's  paws 
were  strong  and  father  could  be  very  rough.  So 
the  seven  fur  balls  mounted  the  smooth  maple  stair- 
tlway  as  before. 

The  Red  Fox  of  the  hillside  yapped  three  times,  a 
little  song  sparrow  sang  aloud  in  his  dreams  not 
far  from  the  great  maple,  and  the  Coon  mother 
heard  without  heeding.  Then  later  came  another 
sound,  quite  low  and  distant,  feeble  indeed.  The 
young  seemed  not  to  hear  it,  but  it  set  the  mother's 
hair  on  end.  It  was  a  different  note,  coming  from 
anywhere  in  the  north:  the  harmless  wind  made 
just  such  noises  at  times»,  but  in  this  were  also  sharp 

100 


Way-atcha  with  his  Mother  and  Brothers  hunting  in  the 
moonlight 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

cracks,  like  blows  struck  on  wood,  and  once  or 
twice  yelps  that  must  have  been  from  dogs. 

The  sounds  came  nearer  and  louder,  red  stars  ap- 
peared among  the  trees,  and  soon  a  band  of  men  out 
with  dogs  came  menacing  every  living  prowler  in 
the  woods.  The  fresh  Fox  track  down  below  di- 
verted the  attention  of  the  dogs  so  they  did  not 
come  near  the  Coon  tree,  and  mother  knew  that 
they  had  escaped  a  great  danger  that  night. 

THE  HUNTERS 

The  following  evening  Mother  Coon  looked  forty 
ways  and  sniffed  every  breeze  that  blew,  while  the 
moon  swung  past  four  trees  quite  near  the  door 
before  she  would  let  the  family  go  on  their  regular 
hunt.  They  supposed,  of  course,  she  would  lead 
down  the  usual  way  by  the  creek,  but  she  did  not. 
She  moved  in  a  new  direction  upstream,  nor  would 
she  stop  to  hunt,  but  pushed  on.  They  reached  a 
stretch  of  bank  where  frogs  went  jump,  jump,  at 
every  bank  of  sedge.  It  seemed  most  promising, 
but  mother  still  pushed  on.  Then  a  loud  noise 
like  rising  wind  was  heard,  only  sometimes  it 
splashed  like  a  frog  or  even  a  muskrat.  Then  they 
came  to  the  thing  that  made  it,  the  creek  itself, 
jumping  over  a  rocky  ledge  into  a  pool,  sparkling  in 
the  moonrays,  noisy  in  the  night.  Mother  held 
xox 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

them  back  a  little  while  she  looked  hard  ahead  and 
around.  Then  she  crouched;  her  hair  rose  up;  she 
growled.  Father  came  alongside.  The  youngsters 
had  no  desire  now  to  rush  ahead.  There  around 
the  water  so  full  of  game  were  other  hunters,  splash- 
ing, catching  frogs,  and  feasting.  They  were  in 
size  like  Way-atcha's  people,  and  when  the  tail  of 
one  was  turned  there  surely  were  the  seven  rings 
that  make  the  tribal  flag  of  Coon-Raccoon. 

But  some  one  was  trespassing.  Which  family 
owned  this  hunting?  That  is  always  a  serious 
question  in  the  woods.  Father  Coon  stood  up  very 
high  on  his  legs,  puffed  out  his  hair,  and  walked 
forward  from  the  cover,  along  the  open  margin. 
There  was  a  noisy  rush  of  the  other  family,  then 
three  young  in  it  went  whimpering  to  then-  mother, 
and  their  father  stood  up  high,  puffed  out  his  hair, 
and  came  marching  stiffly  and  openly  toward  Way- 
atcha's  father.  Each  gave  a  low  growl,  which 
meant,  "Here  you,  get  out  of  this  or  I'll  make  you! " 
Then,  since  neither  got  out,  they  squared  up  face 
to  face.  Each  felt  that  he  himself  was  right,  and 
the  other  all  wrong.  Each  felt  that  he  must  protect 
his  family  and  drive  the  trespassers  away;  and  so 
they  stood  and  glared  at  each  other,  while  the  young 
ones  of  each  crowded  closely  behind  their  mothers. 

This  is  the  animal  law  of  range.  The  first  finder 
102 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

owns  it,  if  he  marks  it  at  leading  points,  using  for 
this  the  scent  glands  near  the  tail  that  nature  gave 
for  just  such  purposes.  If  two  hunters  have  equal 
claims,  they  fight,  and  the  stronger  holds  it.  Way- 
atcha's  people,  as  it  chanced,  had  not  marked  the 
hunting  ground  for  weeks,  so  their  musk  marks  were 
nearly  washed  away.  The  other  family  came  later, 
but  had  used  it  much,  and  marked  it,  too.  The 
rival  claims  were  balanced.  Nothing  now  but  a 
fight  could  settle  it. 

And  this  is  the  Coon's  chief  mode  of  fight:  close 
on  the  enemy,  offering  the  well-defended  neck  or 
shoulders  to  his  attack,  seize  him  around  the  waist 
and  throw  him  so  he  will  fall  on  you;  for  the  under 
Coon  has  the  best  chance  to  rip  open  his  enemy's 
belly  with  hind  claws,  which  are  free;  holding  him 
with  fore  claws  which  are  free,  his  teeth  have  free 
play  at  the  enemy's  throat,  which  is  exposed. 

So  Way-atcha's  black-masked  sire  came  edging 
on,  a  little  sidewise,  and  the  Coon  of  the  Pool  having 
sized  up  the  other  as  bigger  than  himself,  held  back 
a  little,  fearing  to  close  at  once. 

Old  Black  Mask  made  a  pass;  the  Pool  Coon 
parried.  They  dodged  round  and  round,  neither 
gaining  nor  giving  ground.  Another  pass,  then 
Black  Mask's  footing  slipped,  the  Pool  Coon  closed, 
and  the  fight  was  on.  But  neither  got  the  grip  he 
103 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

sought.  Their  powers  were  nearly  even.  They 
rolled  and  tugged,  while  their  families  squalled, 
and  in  a  moment  both  went  reeling,  and  splash,  into 
the  deep,  cool  pool.  There  is  nothing  like  cool 
water  for  cooling.  The  fighters  broke  apart,  and 
when  they  scrambled  out  they  both  felt  a  wonderful 
change.  They  had  no  more  desire  to  fight.  Each 
now  was  indifferent  to  the  fact  that  the  other  was 
hunting  on  his  grounds.  They  were  in  truth  cooled 
off. 

There  were  some  angry  looks  perhaps,  and  a  few 
low  growls,  but  each  with  his  family  set  about  hunt- 
ing round  the  pond,  one  keeping  the  thickwood 
side,  the  other  the  open  side. 

This  was  the  beginning,  and  in  time  they  all  be- 
came good  friends,  for  the  hunting  was  plenty  for 
both.  The  children  feasted  till  their  bodies  were 
quite  round  in  front  and  they  were  glad  once  more 
to  climb  their  big  smooth  tree. 

THE  WAYWARD  CHILD 

Way-atcha  strongly  disapproved  of  many  things 
his  mother  did.  If  she  wished  to  go  downstream 
when  his  plan  was  to  go  up,  she  must  be  wrong.  If 
she  was  hindered  by  some  trifling  noise  from  going 
to  get  supper  at  supper  time,  it  meant  senseless 
annoyance  for  all.  If  she  was  afraid  of  that  curi- 
104 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

ous  musky  smell  on  a  stone  by  the  shore,  well!  he 
was  not,  and  that  was  all  about  it. 

They  had  gone  for  their  usual  supper  hunt  one 
night.  After  smelling  the  wind,  mother  had  de- 
cided on  going  downstream,  but  Way-atcha  had  been 
enjoying  visions  of  the  pool  with  its  varied  game. 

He  held  back,  and  when  his  mother  called,  he 
had  followed  only  a  little  way.  Then  his  keen  eyes 
sighted  a  movement  in  the  edge  of  the  near  water. 
He  sprang  on  it  with  the  vigor  of  a  growing  hunter, 
and  dragged  out  a  fine  big  crawfish.  Then  he  pro- 
ceeded to  wash  it  thoroughly  and  ate  it  body  and 
bones,  not  heeding  the  call  of  his  mother  as  she  led 
the  others  away.  He  was  perfectly  delighted  with 
himself  for  this  small  victory,  and  felt  so  set  up  and 
independent  that  he  turned  in  spite  of  mother's 
invitation  and  set  out  to  visit  the  upper  pool  as 
he  had  planned. 

After  one  or  two  little  captures  he  reached  the 
jumping  water.  That  very  day  another  visitor 
had  been  there.  Indian  Pete,  a  trapper,  had  found 
the  pool,  and  all  about  it  had  seen  the  tracks  of 
Coon  and  Muskrat.  At  this  season  fur  is  worth- 
less, but  Pete  used  these  creatures  for  his  food,  so 
hid  a  big  steel  trap  in  the  mud,  and  on  a  little  stick 
farther  out  in  the  water  he  rubbed  a  rag  with  a 
mixture  of  animal  oils  and  musk. 
105 


>T 


n 

\j) 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

Ho,  ho!  there  it  was  again,  that  very  smell  that 
poor  timid  mother  was  in  such  fear  of.    Now  he 
would  examine  it.    He  came  down  to  the  place, 
then  sniffed  about,  yielded  to  his  habit  of  feeling 
in  the  mud  as  he  glanced  this  way  and  that,  when 
splash,  and  Way-atcha  was  a  prisoner  held 
"**  firmly  by  one  paw  in  a  horrible  trap  of  steel. 

Now  he  thought  of  mother,  and  raised  the  long 
soft  whicker  that  is  the  call  of  his  kind,  but  mother 
was  far  away.  He  himself  had  made  sure  of  that, 
and  he  remembered  the  clam  shell,  but  all  his 
efforts  to  pull  away  or  bite  off  that  horrid  hard 
thing  were  useless;  there  it  clung  to  his  paw,  and 
hanging  to  it  was  a  sort  of  strong  twisted  root  that 
held  him  there.  All  night  long  in  vain  he  whick- 
ered, whimpered,  and  struggled.  He  was  worn  out 
and  hoarse  as  the  sun  came  up,  and  when  Indian 
Pete  came  around  he  was  surprised  to  find  in  his 
Muskrat  trap  a  baby  Coon,  nearly  dead  with  cold 
and  fright,  and  so  weak  that  he  couldn't  even  bite. 

The  trapper  took  the  little  creature  from  the 
trap  and  put  him  alive  in  his  pocket,  not  knowing 
exactly  what  he  meant  to  do  with  him. 

On  the  road  home  he  passed  by  the  Pigott  home- 
-•  I  stead  and  showed  his  captive  to  the  children. 
I     The  little  Coon  was  still  cold  and  miserable,  and 
/  when  put  into  the  warm  arms  of  the  oldest  girl  he 
'  106 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

snuggled  up  so  contentedly  that  he  won  her  heart 
and  she  coaxed  her  father  into  buying  Way-atcha, 
as  the  Indian  named  the  captive  in  his  own  tongue. 
Thus  the  wanderer  found  a  new  and  very  differ- 
ent home.  He  was  so  well  taken  care  of  here  that 


but  still  he  loved  to  dabble  his  own  brown  paws 
in  the  mud  or  anything  wet  whenever  he  could  get 
the  chance.  He  did  not  eat  milk  and  bread  like  a 
cat  or  other  well-behaved  creature;  he  always  put 
in  his  paws  to  fish  out  the  bread,  bit  by  bit,  and 
commonly  ended  by  spilling  the  milk. 

A  MERRY  LIFE   ON  THE  FARM 

There  was  one  member  of  the  household  that 
Way-atcha  held  in  great  fear;  that  was  Roy  the 
sheep-dog,  house-dog,  watch-dog,  and  barnyard 
guard  in  general.  When  first  they  met  Roy 
growled  and  Way-atcha  chirred.  Both  showed  in 
the  bristling  shoulder  hair  that  they  were  deeply 
moved;  each  in  the  smell  of  the  other  was  instinc- 
tively aware  of  an  enemy  in  an  age-long  war.  The 
Pigott  children  had  to  exercise  their  right  of  eminent 
domain  to  keep  the  peace;  but  the  peace  was  kept. 
Roy  learned  to  tolerate  the  Coon  in  time,  the  Coon 
107 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

became  devotedly  fond  of  Roy,  and  not  two  weeks 
had  gone  before  Way-atcha's  usual  napping  couch 
was  right  on  Roy's  furry  breast,  deep  in  the  wool, 
cuddled  up  with  all  the  dog's  four  legs  drawn  close 
against  him. 

As  he  grew  stronger  he  became  very  mischievous. 
He  seemed  half  monkey,  half  kitten,  full  of  fun 
always,  delighted  to  be  petted,  and  always  hungry, 
and  soon  learned  where  to  look  for  dainties.  The 
children  used  to  keep  goodies  in  their  pockets  for 
him,  and  he  learned  that  fact  so  well  that  when  a 
stranger  came  to  the  house  Way-atcha  would 
gravely  climb  up  his  legs  and  seek  in  all  his  pockets 
for  something  to  eat. 

On  one  occasion  he  had  been  missing  for  some 
hours,  always  a  suspicious  fact.  When  Mrs. 
Pigott  went  into  the  storeroom,  stocked  now  with 
the  summer  preserves,  she  was  greeted  with  the 
whining  call  of  Way-atcha,  more  busy  than  words 
can  tell.  There  he  was  wallowing  up  to  his  eyes 
in  plum  jam,  digging  down  into  a  crock  of  it  like 
a  washwoman  into  her  tubs,  feeling  and  groping 
for  what?  He  had  gorged  himself  till  he  could 
eat  no  more,  and  now  prompted  by  his  ancient 
woodland  memories  he  was  gropping  with  his  paws 
among  the  jam  and  juice  to  capture  all  the  plum 
stones,  each  in  turn  to  be  examined  and  cast  aside. 
108 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

The  floor  was  dotted  with  stones,  the  shelf  was 
plastered  with  the  jam  of  the  many  pots  examined. 
The  Coon  was  unrecognizable  except  for  his  bright 
eyes  and  face,  but  he  came  waddling,  whining, 
slushing  down  from  the  shelf  across  the  floor  to 
climb  up  Mrs.  Pigott's  dress,  assured,  he  believed, 
of  a  cordial  welcome.  Alas!  what  a  cruel  disap- 
pointment he  got! 

One  day  Mr.  Pigott  set  a  hen  with  thirteen  eggs. 
The  next  day  Way-atcha  was  missing.  As  they 
went  about  calling  him  by  name  they  heard  a  faint 
reply  from  the  hen-house,  the  gentle  "whicker" 
that  he  usually  gave  in  answer.  On  opening  the 
door,  there  they  saw  Way-atcha  sprawling  on  his 
back  in  the  hen's  nest  perfectly  gorged,  and  the 
remains  of  the  thirteen  eggs  told  that  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  a  piece  of  shocking  destruction.  Roy 
was  the  proper  guardian  of  the  hen-house.  No 
tramp,  no  Fox,  no  Coon  from  the  woods  could  enter 
that  while  he  was  on  guard.  But  alas !  for  the  con- 
flict of  love  and  duty:  in  his  perplexity  the  dog  had 
unwittingly  followed  the  plan  of  a  certain  great 
man  who  said,  "In  case  of  doubt,  be  friendly." 

Farmer  Pigott  bore  with  Way-atcha  for  long 
because  the  children  were  so  fond  of  the  little 
rascal.  But  the  climax  was  reached  one  day  when 
the  Coon,  left  alone  in  the  house,  discovered  the 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

ink  bottle.  First  he  drew  the  cork  and  spilled 
the  ink  about,  then  he  dabbled  his  paws  in  it  after 
his  usual  manner,  and  found  a  new  pleasure  in 
laying  the  inky  paws  on  anything  that  would  take 
a  good  paw-mark.  At  first  he  made  these  marks 
on  the  table,  then  he  found  that  the  children's 
school  books  were  just  the  things  and  gave  much 
better  results.  He  paw-marked  them  inside  and 
out,  and  the  incidental  joy  of  dabbling  in  the  wet 
resulted  in  frequent  re-inking  of  his  paws.  Then 
the  wall  paper  seemed  to  need  touching  up.  This 
lead  to  the  window  curtains  and  the  girls'  dresses, 
and  then  as  the  bedroom  door  was  open  Way- 
atcha  scrambled  on  the  bed.  It  was  just  beautiful 
the  way  that  snow-white  coverlet  took  the  dear 
little  paw-marks  as  he  galloped  over  it  in  great 
glee.  He  was  several  hours  alone,  and  he  used  up 
all  the  ink,  so  that  when  the  children  came  in  from 
school  it  looked  as  though  a  hundred  little  Coons 
had  been  running  all  over  the  place  and  leaving 
black  paw-marks.  Poor  Mrs.  Pigott  actually 
cried  when  she  saw  her  beautiful  bed,  the  pride 
of  her  heart.  But  she  had  to  relent  when  Coonie 
came  running  to  her  just  the  same  as  usual,  hold- 
ing out  his  inky  arms  and  whining  "errr  err"  to  be 
taken  up  and  petted  as  though  he  were  the  best 
little  Coon  in  the  world. 

no 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

But  this  was  too  much.  Even  the  children  had 
no  excuse  to  offer;  their  dresses  were  ruined. 
Way-atcha  must  go;  and  so  it  came  about  that 
Indian  Pete  was  sent  for.  Way-atcha  did  not 
like  the  looks  of  this  man,  but  he  had  no  choice.  ^ 
He  was  bundled  into  a  sack  and  taken  away  by  * 
the  half-breed,  much  to  Roy's  bewilderment,  for 
he  disliked  the  half-breed  and  despised  his  dog. 
Why  they  should  let  that  stranger  carry  off  a  member 
of  his  family  was  a  puzzle.  Roy  growled  a  little, 
sniffed  hard  at  the  hunter's  legs,  and  watched  him 
without  a  tailwag  as  he  went  off  with  the  bulging 
bag. 

THE  ANCIENT  POE 

It  was  the  end  of  summer  now,  the  Hunting 
Moon  was  at  hand;  the  hunter  had  a  new  hound 
to  train,  and  here  was  the  chance  to  train  him  on 
Coon.  Way-atcha  had  no  claim  on  Peter's  af- 
fection, and  nothing  educates  a  dog  for  Coon  so 
much  as  taking  part  in  a  Coon  run  and  kill. 

This  was  then  to  be  the  end  of  Way-atcha.  The 
trapper  would  use  him,  sacrifice  him,  to  train  his 
hunting  dog.  As  he  neared  his  shanty  that  dog 
came  bounding  forth,  a  lumbering  half-breed  hound, 
with  a  noisy  yap  which  he  uttered  threefold  when 
he  sniffed  the  sack  that  held  Way-atcha. 
in 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

And  this  was  the  way  of  the  two:  in  the  log 
stable  the  Coon  was  given  a  box,  or  little  kennel, 
where  he  could  at  least  save  his  life  from  the  dog. 
Howler  was  brought  in  on  a  chain  and  encouraged 
to  attack  the  Coon  with  loud  "sic  hims."  Brave 
as  a  lion,  seeing  so  small  a  foe,  he  rushed  forward, 
but  was  held  back  with  the  chain,  for  it  was  not 
time  for  a  "kill."  Many  times  he  charged,  to  be 
restrained  by  his  master. 

^  '    Way-atcha  was  utterly  puzzled.    Why  should 
''  yfts"''  th°se  other  two-legged  things  be  so  kind  and  this 

so  hostile?  Why  should  Roy  be  so  friendly  and 
this  yellow  brute  so  wicked  and  cruel?  Each  time 
the  big  dog  charged,  poor  little  Way-atcha  felt  in 
'•  ''ffT^-^*^  him  the  fighting  spirit  of  his  valiant  race  stirred 
up,  and  faced  the  brute  snarling  and  showing  all 
his  teeth. 

But  he  would  quickly  have  been  done  to  death 
by  the  foe  had  not  the  half-breed  held  the  chain. 
Only  once  was  the  dog  allowed  to  close.  He  seized 
the  Coon  cub  by  the  neck  to  give  the  death  shake, 
but  nature  gave  the  Coon  a  strong,  loose  skin. 
The  shake  was  scarcely  felt,  and  Way-atcha  clamped 
his  teeth  on  Howler's  leg  with  a  grip  that  made  him 
yell;  then  the  half-breed  dragged  the  dog  away. 
That  was  enough  for  lesson  No.  i.  Now  they 
hated  each  other;  the  bitter  feud  was  on. 

112 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

Next  day  a  lesson  was  given  again  for  both,  and 
both  learned  other  things:  Way-atcha  that  that 
hole,  the  kennel,  was  a  safe  refuge;  the  cur,  that 
the  Coon  could  clutch  as  well  as  bite. 

The  third  day  came  and  the  third  lesson.  Wait- 
ing for  the  cool  of  the  evening,  the  hunter  dropped 
the  Coon  into  a  bag,  took  down  his  gun,  called 
the  noisy  dog,  and  made  for  the  nearest  stretch 
of  woods,  for  the  trailing  and  treeing  of  the  Coon 
was  to  be  the  climax  of  the  course  of  training. 

Arrived  at  the  timberland,  Pete's  first  care  was 
to  tie  the  dog  to  a  tree.  Why?  Certainly  not 
out  of  consideration  for  the  Coon,  but  for  this: 
the  Coon  must  be  allowed  to  run  and  get  out  of 
sight,  otherwise  the  dog  does  not  try  to  follow  it 
by  track.  Once  he  has  to  do  this  to  find  his  prey, 
his  own  instinctive  prompting  makes  him  a  trailer 
and  he  follows  till  he  sights  the  quarry,  then  at- 
tacks, or  if  it  trees,  as  is  usual,  he  must  ramp  and 
rage  against  the  trunk  to  let  the  hunter  know  the 
Coon  is  there.  This  is  the  training  of  a  Coon  dog; 
this  was  the  plan  of  Indian  Pete. 

So  the  dog  was  chained  to  a  sapling;  the  Coon 
was  carried  out  of  reach,  and  tumbled  from  the 
sack.  Bewildered  at  first,  but  brave,  he  glared 
about,  then  seeing  his  tall  enemy  quite  near  he 
rushed  open-mouthed  at  him.  The  half-breed 

"3 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

ran  away  in  some  alarm,  but  laughing.    The  dog 

rushed  at  the  Coon  till  the  chain  brought  him  up 

with  a  jerk,  and  now  the  Coon  was  free  from  all 

attack,  was  free  to  run.    And  then  how  he  ran! 

,  |       With  the  quick  instinct  of  a  hunted  race,  he  dashed 

away  behind  a  tree  to  get  out  of  sight,  and,  zig- 

|       zagging,  bounded  off,  seeking  the  thickest  cover, 

\       running  as  he  never  had  run  before. 

Back  came  the  half-breed  to  release  the  dog. 
i       Tight  as  a  guy-rope  was  the  chain  that  held  that 
•*+       crazy,  raging  cur,  so  tight  the  chain  that  he  could 
j-        not  get  the  little  slack  he  needed  to  unhook  the 
ij        snap.    Cursing  the  dog,  jerking  him  back  again 
and  again,  he  fumbled  to  unhook  the  snap;  and 
as  he  jerked  and  shouted,  the  dog  jerked  more 
and  barked,  so  made  it  harder.    Two  or  three 
minutes  indeed  he  struggled  to  release  the  chain, 
and  then  he  had  to  catch  and  hold  the  dog  so  as 
to  free  him  by  slipping  his  collar.    Away  went  the 
dog  to  the  place  where  last  he  saw  the  Coon. 

But  the  victim  was  gone;  those  precious  three 
minutes  meant  so  much,  and  responsive  to  the 
hunter's  "sic  him"  "sic  mV"  the  dog  raced  around. 
His  nostrils  found  the  trail,  instinctively  he  yelped, 
then  followed  it,  at  every  bound  a  yelp.  Then  he 
lost  it,  came  back,  found  it  again,  and  yelped, 
and  slowly  followed,  or  if  he  went  too  fast  he  lost 
114 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

it.  And  Pete  ran,  too,  shouting  encouragement, 
for  all  of  this  was  in  the  plan.  The  Coon  no  doubt 
was  running  off,  but  soon  the  dog  would  find  him, 
and  then — oh,  it  never  fails — the  Coon  climbs  up 
the  easiest  tree,  which  means  a  small  one  always; 
the  dog  by  yapping  down  below  would  guide  the 
man,  who  coming  up  would  shoot  the  Coon,  which 
falling  disabled  would  be  worried  by  the  dog,  who 
thus  has  learned  his  part  for  future  cooning,  and 
thenceforth  flushed  with  victory  be  even  keener 
than  his  master  for  the  chase. 

Yes,  that  was  the  plan;  it  had  often  worked 
before,  and  did  so  now,  but  for  one  mishap.  Way- 
atcha  did  not  climb  a  slender  tree.  As  soon  as 
he  was  far  away,  thanks  to  that  fumbled  chain,  and 
heard  the  raging  of  the  two  behind,  he  climbed 
the  sort  of  tree  that  in  his  memory  had  been  most 
a  thing  of  safety  to  him.  The  big  hollow  maple 
was  the  haven  of  his  youth,  and  up  the  biggest 
tree  in  all  the  woods  he  clambered  now. 

His  foes  came  on;  the  dog  was  learning  fast, 
was  sticking  to  the  trail.  His  master  followed 
till  they  reached  the  mighty  sycamore,  and  "Here," 
said  Howler,  "we  have  treed  him!"  What  the 
half-breed  said  we  need  not  hear.  He  had  brought 
his  rifle,  yes,  but  no  axe.  The  Coon  was  safe  in 
some  great  cavernous  limb,  for  nowhere  could  they 

"S 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

see  him,  and  the  tree  could  not  be  climbed  by  man. 
The  night  came  down  and  Pete  with  his  yapping 
dog  went  home  defeated. 

THE  BLESSED  HOLLOW  TREE 

So  luck  was  with  Way-atcha,  luck  and  the  in- 
fluence of  his  early  days,  that  built  in  with  his 
nature  the  secret  of  his  race:  this  is  their  true 
abiding  place — the  hollow  tree.  The  slender 
second  growth  most  often  near  is  a  temptation 
and  a  snare,  but  the  huge  hollow  trunk  is  a  strong 
fortress  and  a  sure  salvation. 

Rested  and  keen  was  he,  when  the  blackest 
hours  came  with  a  blessed  silence;  so  forth  he 
went  and  after  many  a  "hark"  and  "spy"  he  swung 
himself  to  the  ground  in  the  big  woods  and  gal- 
loped away  and  away,  nor  stopped  to  feed  till 
he  found  himself  far  in  the  wide  swamplands  of 
Kilder  Creek,  in  the  home  of  his  early  days  and 
the  land  of  his  kindred. 

A  Coon  coming  back  after  months  away  is  a 
stranger  to  his  people.  His  form  is  forgotten  or 
changed,  his  place  is  filled.  Only  one  thing  holds 
among  this  folk  of  smells,  that  is  his  smell,  that  was 
his  passport,  the  proof  that  he  was  theirs,  and 
slowly  he  "came  back,"  not  as  the  young  of  such  a 
one,  but  as  a  tribal  member  in  good  standing,  and 
116 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

with  them  ever  learning,  and  teaching  too,  till  the 
inner  urge  asserts  itself  and  he  breaks  with  the 
band,  to  cleave  to  a  mate  from  the  band.  So  they 
leave  their  kind,  and  seek,  as  their  parents  sought, 
some  quiet  spot  where  huge  and  hollow  trunks  hold 
yet  the  ground,  where  the  precious  land  is  made 
beautiful  by  its  very  worthlessness.  And  here, 
by  the  All-mother  led,  they  raise  their  brood  and 
teach  a  little  more  than  they  were  taught,  for  times 
have  changed.  The  leagues  of  big  tall  woods  are 
gone,  only  the  skimpy  remnants  by  the  water  stay, 
only  the  useless  trunks  on  the  useless  land,  as 
ploughmen  think.  They  give  no  harbor  to  the 
one-time  forest  kings,  but  lure  the  black-masked 
dweller  of  the  hollow  trunk,  and  wise  is  he  with 
growing  need  for  wisdom.  He  comes  not  forth  by 
day;  he  goes  not  far  by  night.  He  runs  the  top  of 
every  fence,  so  leaves  a  broken  trail.  He  lives  on 
woodland  creekside  food.  He  shuns  all  clash  with  > 
men.  He  never  shows  himself  to  them  unless  they 
chance  to  know  his  way.  High  in  the  noonday  sun  ~" 
he  lies  at  times  to  take  the  sunning  that  is  balm  for  — ~ 
many  an  ill;  and  in  the  night,  when  the  moon  is 
sinking,  he  may  splash  and  forage  by  the  swampy 
shores.  There  tracks  of  divers  size  next  day  give 
record  of  the  night  prowl.  But  ye  may  not  see  him 
anless  by  rare  mischance;  he  is  more  alert  than 

*  "7 


Way-Atcha,  the  Gran-Raccoon 

you,  and  ready  to  vanish  in  his  hollow  tree,  for  the 
world  has  many  hunting  dogs,  with  but  one  Roy. 
He  knows  you  not,  but  he  knows  that  there  is  many 
an  Indian  Pete. 

Ye  long  to  meet  and  know  him,  oh,  ye  Kindly 
Singing  Woodsmen!  Ye  guarantee  respect,  yea, 
reverence,  for  the  Dryad  of  the  hollow  trees !  Would 
I  might  be  your  introducing  guide! 

I  have  sought,  sought  lovingly,  to  meet  him  in  the 
low,  wet  woods  of  Kilder  Creek.  Many  times  have 
I  put  tempting  corn  in  forks  and  other  altars  as 
my  offering  to  the  Ringtail.  And  the  corn  is  al- 
ways gone,  I  never  know  just  how,  but  I  see  at 
divers  times  and  trails  the  marks  of  that  dexterous 
human-fingered  paw,  or  the  mussel  shell  with 
broken  hinge,  or  the  catfish  fins,  and  know  that  still 
he  dwells  close  by,  that  still  he  scoffs  at  bellowing 
hounds,  nor  has  deep  fear  of  any  but  the  shameless 
axe  that  would  steal  his  consecrated  tree.  What 
would  I  not  give  to  have  him  let  me  see  him  as 
one  sees  a  nearby  Friend;  but  that  is  what  he  will 
not.  All  my  privilege  is  this:  to  see  the  pattered 
pigmy  human  tracks  when  in  the  hours  of  morning 
sun  I  seek  along  the  lake,  or  sometimes,  when  the 
autumn's  night  is  black,  I  get  the  long-drawn  roll- 
ing song,  "Whitt-itt-ill-a-loo,  whill-illl-ill-a-loo,  whill- 
118 


Way-Atcha,  the  Coon-Raccoon 

a-loo"  the  love  song  of  Way-atcha  the  Ringtail 
Coon-Racoon  that  wanders  still,  makes  love  and 
lives,  like  the  remaining  prophet  of  a  bygone  simple 
faith,  that  being  true,  will  some  time  come  again 
to  rule,  but  is  waiting,  hiding,  waiting  now,  till  the 
fire  has  passed  away. 


IV 

Billy,  the  Dog 
That  Made  Good 


IV 

Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

SILLY  BILLY 

E  WAS  the  biggest  fool  pup  I  ever 
saw,  chuck  full  of  life  and  spirits, 
always  going  at  racing  speed, 
generally  into  mischief;  breaking 
his  neck  nearly  over  some  small 
matter;  breaking  his  heart  if  his 
master  did  not  notice  him,  chewing  up  clothing,  hats, 
and  boots,  digging  up  garden  stuff  that  he  could  not 
eat,  mistaking  every  leg  of  every  chair  and  table  for 
a  lamp-post,  going  direct  from  wallow  in  the  pigstye 
to  frolic  in  the  baby's  cradle,  getting  kicked  in  the  ribs 
by  horses  and  tossed  by  cows,  but  still  the  same 
hilarious,  rollicking,  endlessly  good-natured,  ener- 
getic fool  pup,  and  given  by  common  consent  the 
fit  and  lasting  name  of  "Silly  Billy." 

It  was  maddening  to  find  on  the  first  cold  morn- 
ing that  he  had  chewed  up  one's  leather  glove,  but 
it  was  disarming  to  have  that  irrepressible,  good- 
123 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

natured  little  idiot  come  wagging  his  whole  latter 
end  south  of  the  short  ribs,  offering  the  remaining 
glove  as  much  as  to  say  that  "one  size  was  enough 
for  any  one."  You  had  to  forgive  him,  and  it  did 
not  matter  much  whether  you  did  or  not,  for  the 
children  adored  him.  Their  baby  arms  were  round 
his  neck  as  much  of  the  time  as  he  could  spare  from 
his  more  engrossing  duties,  and,  in  a  figurative  sense, 
those  protecting  arms  were  around  him  all  the  time. 
As  their  father  found  out,  when  one  day  the  puppy 
pulled  down  a  piece  of  sacking  that  hung  on  the 
smokehouse  pipe,  upsetting  the  stove  and  burning 
up  the  smokehouse  and  all  the  dry  meat  in  it.  Bob 
Yancy  was  furious,  his  whole  winter's  meat  stock 
gone.  He  took  his  shotgun  and  went  forth  deter- 
mined to  put  that  fool  dog  forever  out  of  mischief. 
But  he  met  the  unexpected.  He  found  his  victim 
with  two  baby  arms  about  his  fuzzy  neck:  little 
Ann  Yancy  was  hugging  her  "doggie,"  and  what 
could  he  do?  "It's  my  Billy!  You  shan't  touch 
him!  Go  way,  you  naughty  Daddy!"  And  the 
matter  ended  in  a  disastrous  defeat  for  daddy. 

Every  member  of  the  family  loved  Silly  Billy, 
but  they  wished  from  the  bottom  of  their  hearts 
that  he  might  somehow,  soon,  develop  at  least  a 
glimmer  of  common  dog  sense,  for  he  was  already 
past  the  time  when  with  most  bull  terriers  the  irre- 
124 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

sponsible  exuberance  of  puppyhood  is  ended. 
And  though  destined  to  a  place  among  his  master's 
hunting  dogs,  he,  it  was  judged,  was  not  yet  ripe 
enough. 

Bob  Yancy  was  a  hunter,  a  professional — there 
are  a  few  left — and  his  special  line  was  killing  Bears, 
Mountain  Lions,  Lynxes,  Wolves,  and  other  such 
things  classed  as  "varmints"  and  for  whose  destruc- 
tion the  state  pays  a  bounty,  and  he  was  ever  ready 
to  increase  the  returns  by  "taking  out"  amateur 
hunters  who  paid  him  well  for  the  privilege  of  being 
present. 

Much  of  this  hunting  was  done  on  the  high  level 
of  "the  chase."  The  morning  rally,  the  far  cast 
for  a  trail,  the  warming  hunt,  the  hot  pursuit,  and 
the  finish  with  a  more  or  less  thrilling  fight.  That 
was  ideal.  But  it  was  seldom  fully  realized.  The 
mountains  were  too  rough.  The  game  either  ran 
off  altogether,  or,  by  crossing  some  impossible 
barrier,  got  rid  of  the  hunters  and  then  turned  on 
the  dogs  to  scatter  them  in  flight. 

That  was  the  reason  for  the  huge  Bear  traps 
that  were  hanging  in  Yancy's  barn.  Those  dread- 
ful things  would  not  actually  hold  the  Bear  a  pris- 
oner, but  when  with  a  convenient  log  they  were 
gripped  on  his  paw,  they  held  him  back  so  that  the 
hunters,  even  on  foot,  could  overtake  the  victim. 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

The  dogs,  however,  were  the  interesting  part  of 
the  pursuit.  Three  kinds  were  needed:  exquisite 
trailers  whose  noses  could  follow  with  sureness  the 
oldest,  coldest  trail;  swift  runners  for  swift  game, 
and  intelligent  fighters.  The  fighters  had,  of  course, 
to  be  brave,  but  intelligence  was  more  important, 
for  the  dogs  are  expected  to  nip  at  the  bayed 
quarry  from  behind  and  spring  back  from  his 
counter  blow  rather  than  to  close  at  final  grips. 

Thus  there  were  bloodhounds  and  greyhounds  as 
well  as  a  bulldog  in  the  Yancy  pack,  and  of  course, 
as  always  happens  in  a  community  of  diverse  bloods, 
there  were  some  half-castes  whose  personal  worth 
had  given  them  social  prestige,  and  was  accepted 
as  an  offset  to  doubtful  peo'igree.  Most  of  the 
pack  had  marked  personality.  There  was  Croaker, 
a  small  lady  hound  with  an  exquisite  nose  and  a 
miserable  little  croak  for  a  bay.  You  could  not 
hear  her  fifty  feet  away,  but  fortunately  Big  Ben 
was  madly  in  love  with  her;  he  followed  her  every- 
where and  had  a  voice  like  the  bell  for  which  he  was 
named.  He  always  stuck  close  to  Croaker  and 
translated  her  feeble  whispers  into  tones  that  all 
the  world  within  a  mile  or  two  could  understand. 

Then  there  was  Old  Thunder,  a  very  old,  very 
brave  dog,  with  a  fine  nose.  He  was  a  combination 
of  all  good  gifts  and  had  been  through  many  fights, 
126 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

escaping  destruction  only  thanks  to  the  admirable 
sagacity  that  tempered  his  battle  rage.  Though 
slow  and  feeble  now,  he  was  the  acknowledged 
leader  of  the  pack,  respected  by  dogs  and  men. 

THE  PROFESSIONAL  ROUGH 

The  bulldog  is  more  conspicuous  for  courage  than 
discretion,  so  that  the  post  of  "bulldog  to  the  pack" 
was  often  open.  The  last  bulldog  had  been  buried 
with  the  bones  of  their  last  Grizzly.  But  Yancy 
had  secured  a  new  one,  a  wonder.  He  was  the 
final,  finished,  and  perfect  product  of  a  long  line  of 
fighting  bulldogs  kept  by  a  famous  breeder  in  an- 
other state.  And  when  the  new  incumbent  of  the 
office  arrived  it  was  a  large  event  to  all  the  hunters. 
He  was  no  disappointment:  broad  of  head  and 
chest,  massive  in  the  upper  arm  and  hard  in  the 
flank,  a  little  undershot  perhaps,  but  a  perfect  beast 
of  the  largest  size.  Surly  and  savage  beyond  his 
kind,  the  hunters  at  Yancy's  knew  at  once  that 
they  had  a  fighting  treasure  in  the  Terrible  Turk. 

It  was  with  some  misgiving  that  he  was  turned 
loose  on  the  ranch.  He  was  so  unpleasant  in  his 
manner.  There  was  a  distinct  lack  of  dogginess 
about  him  in  the  gentle  sense,  and  never  did  one  of 
his  race  display  a  greater  arrogance.  He  made  no 
pretence  of  hiding  his  sense  of  contemptuous  superi- 
127 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

ority,  and  the  pack  seemed  to  accept  him  at  his  own 
value.  Clearly  they  were  afraid  of  him.  He  was 
given  the  right  of  way,  avoided  indeed  by  his  future 
comrades.  Only  Silly  Billy  went  bounding  in 
hilarious  friendliness  to  meet  the  great  one;  and  a 
moment  later  flew  howling  with  pain  to  hide  and 
whimper  in  the  arms  of  his  little  mistress.  Of  course, 
in  a  world  of  brawn,  the  hunters  had  to  accept 
this  from  their  prizefighter,  and  see  in  it  a  promise 
of  mighty  deeds  to  come  in  his  own  domain. 

In  the  two  weeks  that  passed  about  the  ranch  the 
Terrible  Turk  had  quarrelled  with  nearly  every 
hound  in  the  pack.  There  was  only  one  indeed 
that  he  had  not  actually  injured:  that  was  Old 
Thunder.  Once  or  twice  they  confronted  each 
other,  as  when  Thunder  was  gnawing  a  bone  that 
the  Turk  seemed  to  want,  but  each  time  Thunder 
stood  his  ground  and  showed  his  teeth.  There  was 
a  certain  dignity  about  Thunder  that  even  a  dog 
will  feel,  and  in  this  case,  without  any  actual  con- 
flict, the  Terrible  Turk  retired,  and  the  onlookers 
hoped  that  this  argued  for  a  kindly  spirit  they  had 
not  hitherto  seen  in  him. 

October  was  glowing  on  the  hills,  and  long  un- 
wonted peeps  of  distant  snowpeaks  were  showing 
themselves  through  thinning  treetops  when  word 
came  that  Old  Reelfoot,  a  famous  cattle-killing 
128 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

Grizzly,  had  reappeared  in  the  Arrow-bell  Cattle 
Range,  and  was  up  to  his  old  tricks,  destroying  live 
stock  in  a  perfect  mania  for  destruction.  There 
was  a  big  reward  offered  for  the  destruction  of 
Reelf oot,  several  times  that  held  out  for  an  ordinary 
Bear.  Besides,  there  was  really  a  measure  of  glory 
attached  to  it,  for  every  hunter  in  the  country  for 
several  years  back  had  tried  to  run  Reelf  oot 
down,  and  tried  in  vain. 

Bob  Yancy  was  ablaze  with  hunter's  fire  when 
he  heard  the  news.  His  only  dread  was  that  some 
rival  might  forestall  him.  It  was  a  spirited  pro- 
cession that  left  the  Yancy  Claim  that  morning, 
headed  for  the  Arrow-bell  Ranch;  the  motley 
pack  straggling  along  or  forging  ahead  till  ordered 
back  in  line  by  the  huntsman.  There  was  the 
venerable  Thunder  staidly  trotting  by  the  heels 
of  his  old  friend  Midnight,  Yancy's  coal-black 
mare;  and  just  before  was  the  Terrible  Turk  with 
his  red-rimmed  eyes  upturned  at  times  to  measure 
his  nearness  to  the  powerful  black  mare's  hoofs. 
Big  Ben  was  fast  by  Croaker,  of  course,  and  the 
usual  social  lines  of  the  pack  were  all  well  drawn. 
Next  was  a  packhorse  laden  with  a  huge  steel 
Bear  trap  on  each  side,  then  followed  packhorses 
with  the  camping  outfit  and  other  hunters,  the 
cook,  and  the  writer  of  this  story. 
129 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

Everything  was  in  fine  shape  for  the  hunt. 
Everything  was  fitly  ordered  and  we  were  well 
away  when  a  disconcerting  element  was  tumbled 
in  among  us.  With  many  a  jap  of  glee,  there, 
'  /*&*"*  bounding,  came  that  fool  bull  terrier,  Silly  Billy. 
Like  a  June-bug  among  honeybees,  like  a  crazy 
schoolboy  in  a  council  room,  he  rollicked  and 
yapped,  eager  to  be  first,  to  be  last,  to  take  lib- 
erties with  Thunder,  to  chase  the  Rabbits,  to  bay 
the  Squirrels,  ready  for  anything  but  what  was 
wanted  of  him:  to  stay  home  and  mind  his  own 
business. 

Bob  might  yell  "Go  home!"  till  he  was  hoarse. 
Silly  Billy  would  only  go  off  a  little  way  and  look 
hurt,  then  make  up  his  mind  that  the  boss  was 
"only  fooling"  and  didn't  mean  a  word  of  it,  and 
start  in  louder  than  ever.  He  steered  clear  of  the 
Turk  but  otherwise  occupied  a  place  in  all  parts 
of  the  procession  practically  all  the  time. 

No  one  wished  him  to  come,  no  one  was  willing 
to  carry  him  back,  there  was  no  way  of  stopping 
him  that  little  Ann  would  have  sanctioned,  so 
Silly  Billy  came,  self-appointed,  to  a  place  on  the 
first  Bear  hunt  of  the  season. 

That  afternoon  they  arrived  at  the  Arrow-bell 
Ranch  and  the  expert  Bear-man  was  shown  the 
latest  kill,  a  fine  heifer  barely  touched.  The 

130 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

Grizzly  would  surely  come  back  for  his  next  meal. 
Yes,  an  ordinary  Grizzly  would,  but  Reelfoot  was 
an  extraordinary  animal.  Just  because  it  was 
the  Bear  fashion  to  come  again  soon,  he  might  not 
return  for  a  week.  Yancy  set  a  huge  trap  by  this 
"kill"  but  he  also  sought  out  the  kill  of  a  week 
gone  by,  five  miles  away,  and  set  by  that  another 
gaping  pair  of  grinning  cast  steel  jaws. 

Then  all  retired  to  the  hospitable  ranch  house, 
where  Turk  succeeded  in  mangling  a  light-weight 
sheep-dog  and  Silly  Billy  had  to  be  rescued  from 
a  milky  drowning  in  the  churn. 

Who  that  knows  the  Grizzly  will  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  that  night  brought  the  hunters  nothing, 
and  the  next  was  blank?  But  the  third  morning 
showed  that  the  huge  brute  had  come  in  craftiness 
to  his  older  kill. 

I  shall  not  forget  the  thrills  of  tfie  time.  We  had 
passed  the  recent  carcass  near  the  ranch.  It  lay 
untouched  and  little  changed.  We  rode  on  the 
five  miles  to  the  next.  And  before  we  were  near 
we  felt  there  was  something  doing,  the  dogs  seemed 
pricked  up,  there  was  some  sensation  in  the  air. 
I  could  see  nothing,  but,  while  yet  a  hundred  yards 
away,  Bob  was  exulting,  "A  catch  this  time  sure 
enough." 

Dogs  and  horses  all  were  inspired.    The  Terrible 

131 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

Turk,  realizing  his  importance,  breasted  his  way  to 
the  front,  and  the  rumbling  in  his  chest  was  grand 
as  an  organ-  Ahead,  behind,  and  all  around  him, 
was  Silly  Billy  yapping  and  tumbling. 

There  was  the  carcass,  rather  "high"  now  but 
untouched.  The  place  of  the  trap  was  vacant, 
log  and  all  were  gone;  and  all  around  were  signs 
of  an  upset,  many  large  tracks,  so  many  that 
scarcely  any  were  clear,  but  farther  on  we  got  the 
sign  most  sought,  the  thirteen-inch  track  of  a 
monster  Grizzly,  and  the  bunch  on  the  right  paw 
stamped  it  as  Reelfoot's  trail. 

I  had  seen  the  joy  blaze  in  Yancy's  eye  before, 
but  never  like  now;  he  glowed  with  the  hunter's 
heat,  and  let  the  dogs  run  free,  and  urged  them  on 
with  whoops  and  yells  of  "Sic  him,  boys!"  "Ho, 
boys!"  "Sic  him!"  Not  that  much  urging  was 
needed,  the  dogs  were  possessed  of  the  spirit  of  the 
day.  This  way  and  that  they  circled,  each  for 
himself.  For  the  Bear  had  thrashed  around  a 
while  before  at  length  going  off.  It  was  Croaker 
that  first  had  the  real  trail.  Big  Ben  was  there  to 
let  the  whole  world  know,  then  Thunder  indorsed 
the  statement.  Had  it  been  Plunger  that  spoke 
the  rest  would  have  paid  no  heed,  but  all  the  pack 
knew  Thunder's  voice,  and  his  judgment  was  not 
open  to  question.  They  left  their  devious  different 

132 


Billy,  the  Do?  That  Made  Good 

tracks,  and  flocked  behind  the  leader,  baying  deep 
and  strong  at  every  bound,  while  Turk  came  hurry- 
ing after  and  Silly  Billy  tried  to  make  amends  in 
noise  for  all  he  lacked  in  judgment. 

Intoxicating  moments  those  for  all  the  hunt. 
However  civilized  a  man  may  be,  such  sounds  and 
thoughts  will  tear  to  tatters  all  his  cultured  ways 
and  show  him  up  again  a  hunting  beast. 

Away  we  went,  the  bawling  pack  our  guides. 
Many  a  long  detour  we  had  to  make  to  find  a  horse- 
man's road,  for  the  country  was  a  wilderness  of 
rocky  gullies,  impenetrable  thickets,  and  down 
timber,  where  fire  and  storm  had  joined  to  pile 
the  mountain  slope  with  one  dead  forest  on  another. 
But  we  kept  on,  and  before  an  hour  the  dinning  of 
the  pack  in  a  labyrinth  of  fallen  trees  announced 
the  Bear  at  bay. 

No  one  who  has  not  seen  it  can  understand  the 
feelings  of  that  hour.  The  quick  dismount,  the 
tying  of  the  nerve-tense  horses,  the  dragging  forth 
of  guns,  the  swift  creep  forward,  the  vital  ques- 
tions, "How  is  he  caught?  By  one  toe  that  will 
give,  and  set  him  free  the  moment  that  he  charges, 
or  firmly  by  one  leg?"  "Is  he  free  to  charge  as 
far  as  he  can  hurl  the  log?  or  is  he  stalled  in  trees 
and  helpless?" 

Creeping  from  trunk  to  trunk  we  went,  and  once 

133' 


\ 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

the  thought  flashed  up,  "Which  of  us  will  come 
back  alive?"  Oh,  what  a  din  those  dogs  were 
making!  Every  one  of  them  was  in  that  chorus. 
Yapping  and  baying,  high  and  low,  swaying  this 
way  and  that,  which  meant  the  Bear  was  charging 
back  and  forth,  had  still  some  measure  of  freedom. 

"Look  out  now!  Don't  get  too  close!"  said 
Yancy.  "Log  and  all,  he  can  cover  fifty  feet 
while  you  make  ten,  and  I  tell  you  he  won't  bother 
about  the  dogs  if  he  gets  a  chance  at  the  men.  He 
knows  his  game." 

THE  FIERY  FURNACE  AND   THE   GOLD 

There  were  more  thrills  in  the  woods  than  the 
mere  sounds  or  expectations  accounted  for.  My 
hand  trembled  as  I  scrambled  over  the  down  tim- 
ber. It  was  a  moment  of  fierce  excitement  as  I 
lifted  the  last  limbs,  and  got  my  first  peep.  But  it 
was  a  disappointment.  There  was  the  pack,  bound- 
ing, seething,  yelling,  and  back  of  some  brush  was 
some  brown  fur,  that  was  all.  But  suddenly  the 
brushwood  swayed  and  forth  rushed  a  shaggy 
mountain  of  flesh,  a  tremendous  Grizzly — I  never 
knew  one  could  look  so  big — and  charged  at  his 
tormentors:  they  scattered  like  flies  when  one 
strikes  at  a  gathered  swarm. 

But  the  log  on  the  trap  caught  on  a  stump  and 


Billy,  the  Dog:  That  Made  Good 

held  him,  the  dogs  surged  around,  and  now  my  view 
was  clear. 

This  is  the  moment  of  all  in  the  hunt.  This  is 
the  time  when  you  gauge  your  hounds.  This  is 
the  fiery  furnace  in  which  the  metals  all  are  tried. 
There  was  Old  Thunder  baying,  tempting  the  Bear 
to  charge,  but  ever  with  an  eye  to  the  safe  retreat; 
there  was  Croaker  doing  her  duty  in  a  mere  an- 
nouncement; there  were  the  greyhounds  yapping 
and  nipping  at  his  rear;  there  in  the  background, 
wisely  waiting,  reserving  his  power  for  the  exact 
proper  time,  was  the  Terrible  Turk,  and  here  and 
there,  bounding,  yapping,  insanely  busy,  was  Silly 
Billy,  dashing  into  the  very  jaws  of  death  again 
and  again,  but  saved  by  his  ever-restless  activity, 
and  proud  of  the  bunch  of  Bear's  wool  in  his  teeth. 

Round  and  round  they  went,  as  Reelfoot  made 
his  short,  furious  charges,  and  ever  Turk  kept 
back,  baying  hoarsely,  gloriously,  but  biding  his 
time  for  the  very  moment.  And  whatever  side 
Old  Thunder  took,  there  Turk  went,  too,  and  Yancy 
rejoiced,  for  that  meant  that  the  fighting  dog  had 
also  good  judgment  and  was  not  over-rash. 

The  fighting  and  baying  swung  behind  a  little 
bush.  I  wanted  to  see  it  all  and  tried  to  get  near, 
but  Yancy  shouted  out,  "Keep  back!"  He  knew 
the  habits  of  the  Bear,  and  the  danger  of  coming 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

into  range.  But  shouting  to  me  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  Bear,  and  straight  for  Bob  he  charged. 
Many  a  time  before  had  Yancy  faced  a  Bear,  and 
now  he  had  his  gun,  but  perched  on  a  small  and 
shaky  rotten  log  he  had  no  chance  to  shoot,  and 
swinging  for  a  clearer  view,  upraised  his  rifle  with 
a  jerk — an  ill-starred  jerk — for  under  it  the  rotten 
trunk  cracked,  crashed,  went  down,  and  Bob  fell 
sprawling  helpless  in  among  the  tumbled  logs, 
and  now  the  Grizzly  had  him  in  his  power.  "Thud," 
"crash"  as  the  trap-log  smote  the  trees  that  chanced 
between;  and  we  were  horror-held.  We  had  no 
power  to  stop  that  certain  death:  we  dared  not 
fire,  the  dogs,  the  man  himself,  were  right  in  line. 
The  pack  closed  in.  Their  din  was  deafening; 
they  sprang  on  the  huge  haired  flanks,  they  nipped 
the  soggy  heels,  they  hauled  and  held,  and  did  their 
best,  but  they  were  as  flies  on  a  badger  or  as  rats 
on  a  landslide.  They  held  him  not  a  heart-beat, 
delayed  him  not  a  whit.  The  brushwood  switched, 
the  small  logs  cracked,  as  he  rushed,  and  Bob 
would  in  a  moment  more  be  smashed  with  that 
fell  paw,  for  now  no  human  help  was  possible, 
when  good  old  Thunder  saw  the  only  way — it 
meant  sure  death  for  him — but  the  only  way. 
Ceased  he  all  halfway  dashing  at  the  flank  or  heel 
and  leaped  at  the  great  Bear's  throat.  But  one 

136 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

swift  sweep  of  that  great  paw,  and  he  went  reeling 
back,  bruised  and  shaken.    Still  he  rallied,  rushed 
as  though  he  knew  it  all  must  turn  on  him,  and 
would  have  closed  once  more,  when  Turk,  the 
mighty  warrior  Turk,  the  hope  and  valor  of  the 
pack,  long  holding  back,  sprang  forward  now  and 
fastened,  gripped  with  all  his  strength— on  the 
bear?     No,  shame  of  shames — how  shall  I  say 
the  truth?    On  poor  old  Thunder,  wounded,  bat- 
tered, winded,  downed,  seeking  to  save  his  master. 
On  him  the  bulldog  fastened  with  a  grip  of  hate. 
This  was  what  he  waited  for,  this  was  the  time 
of  times  that  he  took  to  vent  his  pent-up  jealous 
rage— sprang  from  behind,  dragged  Thunder  down 
to  hold  him  gasping  in  the  brushwood.    The  Bear 
had   freedom   now   to   wreak   revenge;  his   only 
doughty  foeman  gone,  what  could  prevent  him? 
But  from  the  reeling,  spieling,  yapping  pack  there 
sprung  a  small  white  dog,  not  for  the  monster's 
heel,  not  for  his  flank,  or  even  for  his  massive 
shoulder  forging  on,  but  for  his  face,  the  only  place 
where  dog  could  count  in  such  a  sudden  stound, 
gripped  with  an  iron  grip  above  the    monster's 
eye,  and  the  huge  head  jerking  back  made  that 
small  dog  go  flapping  like  a  rag;  but  the  dog  hung 
-on.    The  Bear  reared  up  to  claw,  and  now  we  saw 
that  desperate  small  white  dog  was  Silly  Billy, 
i37 


Billy,  the  Dog:  That  Made  Good 

none  else,  hanging  on  with  all  his  might  and 
weight. 

Bob  scrambled  to  his  feet,  escaped! 

The  huge  brute  seized  the  small  white  body  in 
paws  like  stumps  of  trees,  as  a  cat  might  seize  a 
mouse  he  seized,  and  wrenched  him  quivering, 
yes,  tore  his  own  flesh  wrenching,  and  hurled  him 
like  a  bundle  far  aside,  and  wheeling  for  a  moment 
paused  to  seek  the  bigger  foe,  the  man.  The  pack 
recoiled.  Four  rifles  rang,  a  long,  deep,  grating 
snort,  and  Reelfoot's  elephantine  bulk  sank  limp  on 
the  storm-tossed  logs.  Then  Turk,  the  dastard 
traitor  Turk,  with  chesty  gurgle  as  a  war-cry,  closed 
bravely  on  the  dead  brute's  haunch  and  fearlessly 
tore  out  the  hair,  as  the  pack  sat  lolling  back,  the 
battle  done. 

Bob  Yancy's  face  was  set.  He  had  seen  it  nearly 
all,  and  we  supplied  the  rest.  Billy  was  wagging 
his  whole  latter  end,  shaking  and  shivering  with  ex- 
citement, in  spite  of  some  red  stained  slashes  on  his 
ribs.  Bob  greeted  him  affectionately:  "You 
Dandy.  It's  the  finish  that  shows  up  the  stuff  a 
Bear-dog  is  made  of,  an'  I  tell  you  there  ain't  any- 
thing too  good  in  Yancy's  Ranch  for  you.  Good 
old  Thunder  has  saved  my  life  before,  but  this  is  a 
new  one.  I  never  thought  you'd  show  up  this 
way." 

138 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

"And  you,"  he  said  to  the  Turk,  "I've  just  two 
words  for  you : '  Come  here !' "  He  took  off  his  belt, 
put  it  through  the  collar  of  the  Terrible  Turk,  led 
him  to  one  side.  I  turned  my  head  away.  A 
rifle  cracked,  and  when  at  length  I  looked  Yancy 
was  kicking  leaves  and  rubbish  over  some  carrion 
that  one  time  was  a  big  strong  bulldog.  Tried  in 
the  fire  and  found  wanting,  a  bully,  a  coward,  a 
thing  not  fit  to  live. 

But  heading  all  on  the  front  of  Yancy 's  saddle 
in  the  triumphal  procession  homeward  was  Billy, 
the  hero  of  the  day,  his  white  coat  stained  with  red. 
His  body  was  stiff  and  sore,  but  his  exuberant  spirits 
were  little  abated.  He  probably  did  not  fully 
understand  the  feelings  he  had  aroused  in  others, 
but  he  did  know  that  he  was  having  a  glorious 
time,  and  that  at  last  the  world  was  responding  to 
the  love  he  had  so  bounteously  squandered  on  it. 

Riding  in  a  pannier  on  a  packhorse  was  Old 
Thunder.  It  was  weeks  before  he  got  over  the 
combined  mauling  he  got  from  the  Bear  and  the 
bulldog,  and  he  was  soon  afterward  put  in  honor- 
able retirement,  for  he  was  full  of  years. 

Billy  was  all  right  again  in  a  month,  and  when 
half  a  year  later  he  had  shed  his  puppy  ways,  his 
good  dog  sense  came  forth  in  strength.  Brave  as  a 
Lion  he  had  proved  himself,  full  of  lif e  and  energy, 

139 


Billy,  the  Dog  That  Made  Good 

affectionate,  true  as  steel,  and  within  two  years  he 
was  leader  of  the  Yancy  pack.  They  do  not  call 
him  "Silly"  now,  but  "Billy,  the  pup  that  made 
good." 


140 


V 

Atalapha,  a  Winged 
Brownie 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie* 

*I  have  always  loved  the  Brownies  so  much,  and  so  earnestly 
wished  to  believe  in  them,  that  I  have  taught  myself  to  do  so,  and 
I  want  others  to  have  that  same  pleasure.  It  is  worth  your  while 
looking  up  some  good  old  books  (not  new  ones)  to  learn,  if  you 
wish  to  do  so,  just  what  a  Brownie  is.  I  think  you  could  find 
that  all  the  good  reliable  authorities  like  Grimm,  Andersen,  etc., 
agree  that  the  Brownie  is  a  shy  two-legged  elfin  wearing  a  fur 
cloak,  standing  about  a  thumb  high  in  his  silent  stockings, 
though  he  never  does  stand  that  way. 

He  is  distinguished  from  other  two-legged  dwarves  by  his 
sharp-pointed  ears  and  his  sense  of  humor.  He  gets  his  living 
by  dancing  over  the  treetpps  in  the  woods  on  moonlight  nights 
and  differs  from  other  fairies  in  being  quite  friendly  to  man.  He 
dwells  in  a  cave  or  hollow  tree,  hiding  all  day,  and  either  sleeps 
all  winter  underground  or  steals  away  to  some  warm  country; 
though  without  feathers,  he  is  blessed  with  marvellous  powers  of 
flight.  Besides  which,  he  can  talk  without  making  a  noise, 
is  invisible  at  will  in  the  moonlight,  and  has  many  wonderful 
powers  that  we  children  understand  perfectly,  but  are  beyond  the 
comprehension  of  our  wisest  grown-ups. 


THE  TWINS 

HE  Beavers  had  settled  on  the 
little  brook  that  runs  easterly 
from  Mount  Marcy,  and  built  a 
series  of  dams  that  held  a  suc- 
cession of  ponds  like  a  wet  stair- 
way down  the  valley,  making  a 

143 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

break  in  the  forest  that  gave  the  sky  a  chance  to 
see  its  own  sweet  face  in  the  pools  below. 

They  were  peaceful  folk,  the  Beavers,  and  many 
of  the  shy  tittle  hush-folk,  that  the  fairy  books  tell 
of,  were  glad  and  welcome  to  harbor  and  revel  in  the 
pleasaunce  these  water-workers  had  created.  Thus 
it  came  about  that  the  cool  green  aisle  of  the  tim- 
ber land  was  haunted,  in  the  Beaver  vale  east  of 
Marcy. 

The  Rose  Moon  glowed  on  the  pine-robed  moun- 
tain. The  baby  Beavers  were  learning  to  slap  with 
their  tails,  and  already  the  chirring  in  high  places 
told  of  young  birds  grown  and  lusty.  The  peace  of 
the  forest  was  abroad,  for  it  was  calm  and  cool  in 
the  waning  tight. 

The  sun  sets  thrice  each  day  in  Marcy  Vale: 
First,  when  it  drops  so  far  that  the  tall  timber  on 
the  western  slope  steeps  all  below  in  a  soft  green 
shade;  this  the  sunset  of  the  forest;  again,  when  the 
great  rugged  breast  of  Mother  Marcy  blocks  out  all 
tight  from  the  trees;  this  is  the  sunset  of  the  Moun- 
tain; and  last,  when  the  western  world  rim  receives 
the  tight  orb,  the  mountain's  brow  turns  red  for  a 
moment,  then  ashy  pale;  this  is  the  sunset  of  the 
world.  In  a  tittle  while  then  all  is  dark,  the  sun 
peoples  go  to  sleep  and  the  hush  peoples  of  shadow- 
land  have  now  their  day. 


The  portrait  of  a  Brownie 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

The  sunset  of  the  forest  had  given  the  signal  to 
robin  and  tanager  to  begin  their  vesper  song.  The 
sunset  of  the  mount  had  issued  the  dew-time  call 
that  conjures  out  of  caves  and  hollow  trees  the  small-  * 

est  of  the  winged  Brownie  folk,  whose  kingdom  is  \    ^^    ^  -^ 
the  twilight  and  whose  dance  hall  is  high  above  the 
treetops. 

Now  they  come  trooping  down  the  open  aisle 
above  the  Beaver  ponds.  Skimming  and  circling 
on  lightning  wing,  pursuing  each  other  with  shouts 
that  to  them  seemed  loud  and  boisterous,  though 
to  us  they  were  merely  squeaks  and  twitters  too 
thin  and  fine  for  any  but  the  sharpest  ears. 

Up  and  down  the  waterway  they  dart,  playing, 
singing,  hunting.  Yes,  hunting,  for  this  is  the  time 
and  place  of  the  evening  meal  and  the  prey  they 
catch  and  eat  is — as  befits  such  dainty  coursers  of 
the  air — the  butterflies  of  the  night.  And  when 
one  of  those  great  fluffy  things  went  fluttering  by, 
some  two  or  three  of  the  Brownie  throng  would 
cease  pursuing  gnats  and  gauze  flies,  to  have  a 
riotous  breakneck  speeder  after  the  moth,  and  rend- 
ing its  fat  body  in  the  air  among  them,  they  scat- 
tered its  feathers  to  the  wind  and  its  framework 
to  the  ground. 

There  was  a  fixed  order  for  the  coming  of  the 
winged  one*,  an  etiquette,  not  written,  but  ob- 

145 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

served:  just  as  the  smaller  folk  come  earliest  in  any 
procession,  so  the  lesser  Elfins  in  their  scores  were 
first  to  arrive. 

In  half  an  hour  the  black-faced  Brownies  came  in 
hundreds,  and  the  air  over  the  tranquil  Beaver 
ponds  was  like  that  of  a  barnyard  whose  swallow 
colony  is  strong. 

The  third  sunset  came  and  went.  The  shades  of 
night  were  sweeping  up  from  the  east.  The  robins 
alone  were  singing  in  the  gloaming,  when  beautiful 
Borealis  in  his  red  and  yellow  robes  skimmed  down 
the  mountain-side  and  joined  the  jolly  pirouetting 
host  that  sang  and  circled  in  the  upper  shades. 

A  little  later  long-winged  Serotinus  skimmed  into 
the  crowd,  to  be  the  advance  courier  of  the  last  and 
royalest  of  them  all,  that  clad  in  frosted  sable  furs 
swooped  in  on  ample  wings.  Biggest,  strongest, 
rarest  of  the  folk  of  Shadowland,  the  king  of  his 
kind,  the  chief  of  the  winged  Brownies,  and  yet  we 
sordid  blind  ones  have  no  better  name  for  him  than 
Hoary  Bat. 

Darting  up  and  down  the  waterway,  chasing  the 
fat  moths  and  big  game  of  the  night,  noctua,  samia, 
lachnosterna,  or  stripping  their  bodies  of  legs  and 
wings  to  devour  the  soft  parts  in  air,  the  great  Bat 
flew,  first  of  the  royal  house  to  come.  Sometimes 
skimming  low  over  the  waters,  sometimes  shooting 
146 


Atalapha,  a  Winded  Brownie 

skyward  above  the  trees,  sometimes  spinning  up 
and  down,  faster  than  any  of  its  lesser  kin.  One 
not  gifted  with  night  eyes  would  have  marvelled 
to  learn  that  in  all  this  airy  wheeling  and  speeding 
she,  for  it  was  a  Queen  Bat,  carried  a  heavy  burden. 
Clinging  to  her  breast  were  two  young  Bats,  her 
offspring.  They  were  growing  fast  and  already  a 
heavy  weight;  but  none  who  marked  only  the 
mother's  flight  would  have  guessed  that  she  was  so 
trammelled  and  heavy  laden. 

Up  and  down  the  fairway  of  the  water  she 
skimmed,  or  high  above  the  trees  where  roam  the 
bigger  flyers  of  the  night,  till  she  had  caught  and 
eaten  her  fill,  then  after  another  hovering  drink  at 
the  Beaver  pond  she  left  the  almost-deserted  fly- 
way  and  soaring  over  the  treetops,  she  made  up  the 
mountain-side  to  her  home  den,  a  knot-hole  in  a  hol- 
low maple  too  small  to  be  entered  by  Marten  or 
Hawk  or  any  creature  big  enough  to  do  her  harm. 

THE  SCHOOLING  OF  A  BROWNIE 

As  June,  the  Moon  of  Roses,  passed,  the  young 
Bats  grew  apace.  They  were  full  furred  now,  and 
their  weight  so  great  that  the  mother  left  them  in 
the  den  in  the  hollow  branch  each  time  she  went 
forth  seeking  food.  Now  she  brought  back  the 
bodies  of  her  prey,  moths  and  June-bugs;  for  the 

147 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

young  were  learning  to  eat  solid  food,  and  when  their 
mother  came  home  after  the  evening  hunt,  they 
would  meet  her  at  the  door  with  a  soft  chirring  of 
welcome,  spring  on  the  food  she  brought,  and  tussel 
with  each  other  for  the  pieces. 

Two  meals  a  day,  or  rather  each  night,  is  a  rule 
of  the  Bat  life — one  in  the  evening  twilight,  and 
again  in  the  morning  twilight.  And  twice  each  day 
the  mother  stuffed  them  with  food,  so  they  grew 
and  grew.  The  difference  of  their  dispositions 
was  well  marked  now.  The  lesser  brother  was 
petulant  and  a  little  quarrelsome.  He  always 
wanted  the  June-bug  that  had  not  been  given  him, 
and  paid  little  heed  to  the  warning  "chirr"  that  his 
mother  sometimes  gave  to  stop  him  scrambling 
after  his  brother's  portion.  But  the  bigger  brother 
was  not  easily  provoked;  he  sought  for  peace. 
What  wonder  that  the  mother  found  it  pleasanter 
to  stroke  and  lick  the  big  one's  fur  than  to  be  chit- 
tered  at  by  the  little  one. 

June  went  by,  July  the  Thunder  Moon  was  half 
gone,  when  a  great  event  took  place.  The  young 
had  been  growing  with  wonderful  rapidity.  Though 
far  from  being  as  heavy  as  the  mother  yet,  they 
were  nearly  as  long  and  had  a  wing  stretch  that 
was  fully  three-quarters  of  hers.  During  the  last 
few  days  they  had  dared  to  sit  on  their  home 
148 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

branch  outside  of  the  den,  to  wait  for  mother  with 
the  eatables.  Each  time  they  saw  her  coming  their 
well-grown  wings  fluttered  vigorously  with  excite- 
ment, and  more  than  once  with  such  power  that 
the  young  bodies  were  lifted  almost  off  their  feet; 
surely  the  time  had  come  for  the  great  experiment. 
Instead  of  giving  them  the  food  that  evening,  the 
mother  Bat  kept  a  little  way  off. 

Holding  the  body  of  a  cockchafer,  she  alighted 
on  a  branch,  and  when  the  hungry  little  ones  pur- 
sued her  clamoring,  she  kept  just  out  of  reach,  and 
continued  on  to  the  end  of  the  branch.  The  little 
ones  scrambled  after  her,  and  just  as  they  reached 
the  prize  she  launched  into  the  air  on  her  wings. 
The  Big  Brother  was  next  her.  He  had  been 
reaching  for  the  food;  the  suddenness  of  the  move 
upset  him.  He  lost  his  hold  and  in  a  moment  was 
falling  through  the  air.  He  gave  a  little  screech, 
instinctively  spread  out  his  wings  and  flapped 
very  hard.  Then  lo!  instead  of  falling,  he  went 
fluttering  forward,  and  before  he  knew  it,  was 
flying! 

It  was  weak  and  wabbly,  but  it  was  flight. 
Mother  was  close  at  hand,  and  when  he  seemed  to 
weaken  and  failed  to  hold  control,  she  glided  under- 
neath and  took  his  weight  upon  her  back.  Wheel- 
ing, she  mounted  with  strong,  sturdy  strokes.  Soon 
149 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

again  he  was  back  to  the  home  den  and  his  maiden 
flight  was  over.  It  was  three  days  before  Little 
Brother  would  take  his  flight.  And  many  a  scold- 
ing his  mother  gave  him  before  he  could  be  per- 
suaded that  he  really  had  wings  to  bear  him  aloft, 
if  only  he  would  try  to  use  them. 

From  this  time  on  the  twins'  real  life  began. 
Twice  nightly  they  went  flying  with  Mother  to  the 
long  wet  valley  through  the  timber,  and  though 
at  first  they  wearied  before  they  had  covered  thrice 
the  length  of  the  Beaver  ponds,  their  strength  grew 
quickly,  and  the  late  Thunder  Moon  saw  them 
nearly  full  grown,  strong  on  the  wing,  and  rejoicing 
in  the  power  of  flight.  Oh!  what  a  joy  it  was, 
when  the  last  streak  of  light  was  gone  from  the 
western  world  rim,  to  scramble  to  the  hole  and 
launch  into  the  air — one,  two,  three — Mother, 
Brother,  and  Little  Brother  to  go  kiting,  scooting, 
circling,  sailing,  diving,  and  soaring — with  flutter, 
wheel,  and  downward  plunge.  Then  sharp  with 
hunger  they  would  dart  for  the  big  abounding 
game — great  fat  luna  moths,  roaring  June-bugs, 
luscious  cecropias,  and  a  thousand  smaller  game 
were  whizzing  and  flitting  on  every  side,  a  plenteous 
feast  for  those  with  wings  of  speed.  One  or  two 
small  moths  they  seized  and  gobbled  in  mid-air. 
Then  a  fat  June-bug  came  booming  by  and  away 

150 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

went  the  youngsters  twittering  with  glee,  neck  and 
neck,  and  Mother  hovering  near.  Within  half 
a  pond  length  they  were  up  to  him,  and  pounced 
and  snapped,  Little  Brother  and  Big  Brother. 
But  an  unexpected  difficulty  arose.  The  June-bug 
was  so  big  and  round,  and  clad  in  such  hard-shell 
armor,  that  each  time  the  young  Bats  pounced 
and  snapped,  their  little  jaws  could  get  no  hold 
but  sent  the  bug  rebounding,  safely  speeding. 

Snap,  snap,  snap,  went  the  little  Bats,  but  it 
was  like  terriers  snapping  at  an  Armadillo,  or  kittens 
at  a  Turtle.  For  the  June-bug  kept  his  legs  tight 
tucked  and  all  the  rest  was  round  and  hard. 
/'Snap"  went  Brother  at  his  head  and  "snap" 
went  Little  Brother  at  his  tail.  They  nearly 
bumped  into  each  other,  but  the  booming  bug 
escaped,  and  Little  Brother  cluttered  angrily  at 
every  one. 

Then  the  Mother  Bat  came  skimming  by  and 
said  in  Bat  language:  "Now,  children,  watch  me 
and  see  how  to  manage  those  big  hard  things  you 
cannot  bite."  She  swooped  after  the  roaring  bug, 
but  making  no  attempt  to  use  her  teeth  she  sailed 
over,  then  in  a  twinkling  curled  her  tail  with  its 
broad  flap  into  a  bag,  and  scooped  the  June-bug 
in.  Her  legs  helped  to  close  the  net;  a  quick 
reach  back  of  the  supple  neck  and  the  boomer 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Btownic 

was  seized  by  the  head.  Her  hind  feet  clutched 
it  firmly,  a  few  quick  movements  of  her  jaws:  the 
wing  cases,  the  armored  legs  and  horns  went 
down  rattling  into  the  leafage,  and  the  June-bug's 
body  was  like  a  chicken  trussed  for  eating,  cleaned 
of  all  but  the  meat. 

Calling  to  the  twins  with  a  twittering  squeak, 
she  took  the  fat  lump  in  her  teeth  and  flew  onward 
and  upward,  still  calling.  Then  as  they  labored 
in  pursuit,  she  rose  a  little  and  dropped  the  big 
luscious  prize. 

Away  went  Brother,  and  after  went  Little 
Brother,  in  pursuit  of  the  falling  food.  It  fell 
straight,  they  darted  in  zigzags.  Again  and  again 
they  struck  at  it,  but  could  not  hold  it.  It  was 
surely  falling  to  the  ground,  where  it  would  be 
lost,  for  no  Frosted  Bat  would  eat  food  from  the 
ground.  But  Mother  swooped,  and  with  her  tail 
scooped  the  round  thing  in  again. 

Once  more  she  flew  to  the  higher  level  above  the 
trees.  Again  she  called  to  the  brothers  to  try  their 
powers.  And  as  the  fat  body  dropped  a  second 
time  they  resumed  their  eager  zigzags.  A  little 
screech  of  joy  from  Little  Brother  announced  that 
he  had  scooped  the  body,  but  he  lost  his  wing 
balance,  and  dropped  the  June-bug  to  recover 
himself.  It  had  not  fallen  twenty  feet  before 

15* 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

Brother  dashed  under  sideways  and  up,  then  twit- 
tered in  needle  tones  of  joy,  for  he  had  won  the 
prize  and  won  it  in  fair  play.  The  old  Bat  would 
have  eaten  it  on  the  wing,  but  the  little  ones  were 
not  yet  steady  enough  for  that,  so  they  flew  to  a 
tall  tree,  and  to  a  top  branch  which  afforded  a  good 
perch,  and  there  they  revelled  in  the  spoils. 

THE  UNDOING  OF  LITTLE  BROTHER 

The  Thunder  Moon  was  worthy  of  its  name. 
Night  after  night  there  were  thunderstorms  that 
prevented  the  Bats  going  out  to  hunt,  and  the 
hardship  of  hunger  was  theirs,  for  more  than  once 
they  had  to  crouch  in  the  home  den  while  the  skies 
and  trees  shivered  in  thunder  that  shook  down 
drenching  streams  of  rain.  Then  followed  a  few 
clear  days  and  nights  with  growing  heat.  Little 
Brother,  always  petulant,  chittered  and  crooned 
in  querulous  notes,  but  Brother  and  Mother  bore 
it  all  silently.  The  home  was  surely  very  close, 
but  it  was  a  safe  refuge.  At  last  Little  Brother 
would  stand  it  no  longer.  The  morning  hunt  was 
over,  that  is  the  second  meal,  the  east  was  showing 
a  dawning.  All  three  had  huddled  in  the  old  safe 
home,  but  it  got  closer  and  hotter,  another  blazing 
day  was  coming,  and  Little  Brother,  in  spite  of 
warning  chitters  from  his  mother  and  bead-eyed 

153 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Btownie 

wonder  of  his  brother,  crawled  out  of  the  den,  and 
hung  himself  Bat  fashion,  heels  up,  under  a  thick 
and  shady  spruce  bough  close  at  hand. 

Mother  called  once  or  twice,  but  he  answered  her 
only  with  an  impatient  grunt,  or  not  at  all.  He 
'was  very  well  pleased  to  find  it  so  much  cooler 
and  pleasanter  under  this  bough  than  in  the  den, 
15/though  in  truth  the  blinding  sun  was  far  from 
"agreeable. 

The  brightness  and  the  heat  grew  and  the  bird 
voices  mostly  died  away.  But  there  was  one  that 
could  be  heard  in  sun  or  shadow,  heat  or  twilight, 
the  loud  "Jay,  jay"  of  the  Bluejay,  the  rampant, 
rollicking,  mischief  bird,  the  spy  and  telltale  of 
the  woods. 

"Jay,  jay  I"  he  screamed,  when  he  found  a  late 
fledgling  in  the  nest  of  a  Vireo  and  gobbled  the 
callow  mite  as  its  parents  wailed  around.  "Jay, 
jay,  too-rootel  I "  he  chortled  as  he  saw  a  fat  grass- 
hopper left  on  a  thorn  by  a  butcher  bird  who  be- 
lieved in  storing  food  when  it  was  plenty.  But 
the  Jay  polished  off  the  dainty,  and  hopped  gayly 
to  a  cleft  tree  into  which  some  large  insect  had 
buzzed.  The  Jay  tapped  with  his  bill;  an  angry 
buzz  gave  warning. 

"Nay,  nay!"  said  the  blue  terror,  and  lightly 
flitted  to  a  tall  fir  out  of  reach  of  the  angry  hornets. 

154 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

Here  his  keen  eyes  glancing  around  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  brownish-looking  lump  like  an  autumn 
leaf  or  a  moth  cocoon. 

"Took,  took,"  murmured  the  Jay.  "What  is 
that?"  It  hung  from  the  lower  side  of  a  limb. 
The  Jay  hopped  just  above  it.  The  slight  jarring 
of  his  weight  caused  two  tiny  blinky  eyes  to  open, 
but  the  sunlight  was  blinding,  the  owner  was 
helpless,  and  with  one  fell  blow  of  his  sharp  bill 
the  Bluejay  split  its  skull.  The  brown  form  of 
the  Bat  shook  in  the  final  throe,  fell  from  the 
perch  and  was  lost  to  view,  while  the  Bluejay 
croaked  and  "he  he'd"  and  went  on  in  the  rounds 
of  his  evil  life. 

That  was  the  end  of  Little  Brother. 

His  mother  and  brother  knew  he  was  killed, 
but  they  could  see  little  of  it  in  the  brightness; 
they  were  sure  only  of  this:  they  never  saw  him 
again. 

But  a  man,  a  good  naturalist,  was  prowling 
through  the  woods  that  day  with  trout  rod  in 
hand.  It  was  too  hot  to  fish.  He  was  lying  under 
a  tree  in  the  shade  when  the  familiar  voice  of  the 
Bluejay  sounded  above  him.  He  saw  nothing  of 
the  bird.  He  knew  nothing  of  its  doings  over- 
head, but  he  did  know  that  presently  there  flut- 
tered down  a  beautiful  form,  the  velvet  and  silver 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Bfownfc  * 

clad  body  of  a  Great  Northern  Bat,  and  when  the 
wings  had  ceased  to  flutter,  a  closer  glance  showed 
that  the  skull  was  split  by  a  blow  from  some  sharp 
instrument.  But  the  rare  specimen  was  little 
harmed;  he  gladly  took  it  to  an  honored  resting- 
place.  He  had  no  answer  to  the  riddle,  but  we 
know  it  for  the  working  out  of  the  law:  Obedience 
is  long  life. 

ATALAPHA'S  TOILET 

Atalapha,  the  Big  Brother,  now  lived  alone  with 
his  mother,  learning  many  things  that  were  needful 
to  his  life  success;  being  taught  by  her,  even  as 
she  was  taught  by  her  mother,  chiefly  through  the 
power  of  example,  developing  so  fast  that  he  was 
full  grown  before  the  waning  of  the  Thunder  Moon, 
and  was  far  advanced  for  his  age  in  all  the  wise 
ways  of  Bats. 

One  of  the  first  lessons  was  the  making  of  his 
toilet,  for  the  winged  Brownies  are  exquisitely 
clean  in  their  person.  This  was  the  way  of  his 
^washing;  After  dipping  once  or  twice  in  the  water 
so  the  lower  fur  was  dripping  wet  he  would  fly  to 
some  well-known  roost  and  hanging  by  first  one 
foot  then  by  the  other,  would  comb  his  fur  all 
over  with  the  thumb  that  grows  on  each  wing 
bend;  and  then  with  finer  applications  of  his  teeth 

156 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

and  tongue,  every  part  was  dressed  and  licked  as 
carefully  as  a  cat  might  dress  her  coat.  And  last 
his  wings  are  rubbed  and  massaged  inside  and  out. 
He  would  lick  and  pull  at  the  membrane,  and 
stretch  it  over  his  head  till  every  part  was  cleared 
of  every  speck  of  dust,  and  the  fur  slick  and  clean 
and  fluffy  soft. 

He  knew  how  to  take  the  noisy  June-bug  in  the 
scoop  net;  how  to  snap  the  small  but  juicy  May- 
flies and  mosquitoes  in  his  mouth  and  cut  their 
wings  with  his  side  teeth.  He  could  seize,  strip, 
pluck,  bone,  and  eat  a  noctua  or  a  snowy  maenas 
without  changing  his  line  of  flight.  He  knew  that 
a  polopias  was  a  hardshell  and  a  stinger  to  be  let 
alone;  some  young  Bats  have  lost  their  lives 
through  not  knowing  what  a  deadly  creature  is 
this  steel-blue  mud- wasp.  He  knew  that  the 
woolly  luna,  the  fluffy  samia,  with  her  Owl-eyed 
wings,  or  the  blazing  yellow  basilona  cannot  be 
scooped,  but  must  be  struck  from  above  and  de- 
winged.  So  also  with  the  lightning  hawkmoth, 
the  royal  citheronia,  and  the  giant  cecropia,  the 
hardest  of  all  to  take,  the  choicest  food  in  the  air. 
He  learned  to  keep  away  from  the  surface  of  the 
Beaver  pond  when  the  great  trout  were  jumping, 
and  he  had  discovered  the  wonderful  treat  that 
one  may  eat  hovering  in  front  of  a  high  honey- 

157 


\ 
), 
/s 


Atalapha,  a  "Winged  Brownie 

^  > suckle  when  honey,  pollen,  and  smokeflies  mixed 
•  made  a  thick  delicious  food  that  was  a  new  sensa- 
tion. He  knew  the  booming  hoot  of  the  Horned 
Owl  and  the  screech  of  the  early  Pigeon  Hawk. 
He  could  dart  at  full  speed,  without  touching, 
through  an  opening  but  little  wider  than  one  wing. 
He  could  comb  his  left  side  with  his  right  thumbnail. 
He  learned  to  enjoy  teasing  the  great  clumsy 
Nighthawks;  and  when  he  saw  one  spreading  its 
enormous  gape  to  close  on  some  fat  basilona,  he 
loved  to  dart  between  and  in  a  spirit  of  mischief 
and  sport  to  bear  the  coveted  morsel  away.  All 
Great  Northern  Bats  are  marvellous  on  the  wing, 
but  Atalapha  was  a  marvel  among  the  young  of 
his  kind.  He  rejoiced  in  the  fullness  of  his  speed. 
He  gloried  in  the  strength  of  his  wings,  and — shall 
J}  I  tell  it? — he  became  a  little  puffed  up.  Because 
lie  pleased  his  mother,  and  was  a  little  abler  than 
his  mates  and  had  taken  with  credit  the  first  steps 
in  the  life  journey,  he  reckoned  himself  a  very 
important  being;  and  he  thought  he  knew  it  all. 
He  had  an  awakening. 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  BRIDEGROOMS 

With  the  closing  of  the  Thunder  Moon  Atalapha 
found  himself  not  only  independent  of  his  mother, 
but  also  that  she,  in  yet  a  larger  sense,  was  becom- 

158 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

ing  independent  of  him.  He  was  her  equal  in  size, 
and  though  they  kept  the  same  den,  they  came  and 
went  more  as  they  listed,  often  alone.  Sometimes 
they  did  not  meet  at  all  in  the  hunt. 

With  the  opening  of  the  Red  Moon  another  great 
change  began.  The  mother  left  the  den  earlier, 
left  it  sometimes  as  soon  as  the  first  shadows  had 
fallen  on  the  forest,  skimmed  far  away,  he  knew  not 
where,  came  home  later,  would  sometimes  go  out 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  which  is  not  the  custom 
of  the  Bat,  would  leave  in  the  morning  too  early 
for  the  morning  meal,  and  come  back  perhaps  near 
sunrise,  tired  but  excited.  She  had  not  now  the 
burden  of  nursing  her  young,  and  she  filled  out  in 
flesh,  her  fur  fluffed  softer  than  velvet,  and  its  rich 
brown,  too,  was  frosted  with  silver  tips  that  shone 
like  skifts  of  snow.  Her  eyes  grew  bright  and  her 
cheeks,  once  so  flat  and  thin,  puffed  out  in  rounded 
shape  of  health  and  vigorous  desire.  Some  great 
change  was  setting  in,  and  its  first  effect  was  to  sep- 
arate the  mother  from  the  son. 

It  was  on  the  third  or  fourth  day  of  the  growing 
change,  on  toward  the  time  of  morning  meal — the 
little  star  blink,  when  none  but  the  faintest  stars 
are  blotted  out — Atalapha  and  his  mother  had  not 
yet  aroused,  when  a  strange  sound  came  whinnying 
through  the  calm,  clear  air.  It  was  new  to  Atalapha 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

and  gave  him  no  special  thrill;  but  on  his  young 
mother  it  acted  like  a  spell.  She  scrambled  to  the 
doorway  and  launched  into  the  night  with  a  long, 
warbling,  high-pitched, "  Hoooooo ! "  Atalapha  lost 
no  time  in  following;  and  then  in  the  starry  night 
it  seemed  that  every  star  had  a  quavering  voice, 
was  singing  a  soft,  long,  "Hee-ooo,"  "hee-ooo!" 
in  strains  so  high  that  human  ear  may  hear  them 
not,  in  notes  so  soft  and  quavering  that  surely 
these  were  the  Brownie  bugles  blowing.  From 
everywhere  and  nowhere  came  the  strains.  But 
darting  up  and  out  Atalapha  realized  that  the  air 
was  full  of  Bats,  not  the  little  black-faced  things 
like  those  he  had  scornfully  hunted  with  all  sum- 
mer, but  Great  Northern  Bats  like  himself  and  his 
mother,  and  yet  not  just  the  same  for  they  were 
bigger,  stronger,  more  richly  clad,  like  folk  of  his 
race,  but  nobles  beside  whom  he  was  of  common 
kind. 

What  were  they?  Whence  came  they?  Why 
should  they  sing  as  he  never  had  heard  his  people 
sing?  How  beautiful  and  big  and  strong  they 
looked.  What  wondrous  turns  they  made  in  air. 
And  as  he  gazed  he  saw  a  pair  come  swooping  by. 
One  great  handsome  fellow  with  wings  of  eighteen 
span,  and  fur  like  flame,  when  it  whistled  red  or 
yellow  in  the  wind.  And  the  smaller  one!  Could 
1 60 


The  flittering  Brownie  host  in  the  moonlight 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

it  be?  Yes!  Atalapha  could  not  mistake  that 
shoulder  band  of  white,  but  he  flew  yet  closer,  and 
saw  with  a  strange  little  feeling  of  loss  that  the 
silver  collar-bearer  was  his  mother.  She  sailed  and 
swooped  in  close  companionship  with  the  big  splen- 
did fellow.  Atalapha  knew  it  not,  but  this  was  his 
father  come  back  to  his  bride. 

THE  GREAT  SOUTHERN  TREK 

The  early  meal  was  caught  and  eaten  in  the  air; 
and  when  the  beams  of  the  Little  Morning  whitened 
the  eastern  screen,  the  new  Bat  host  began  to  hide 
itself  for  the  day.  Many  went  to  old  familiar 
nooks;  some  went  to  the  homes  of  their  wives;  but 
many  who  had  brought  their  mates  with  them  on 
this  the  great  national  wedding  trip  were  left  to 
roost  in  the  hemlock  tops,  chance  hollow  limbs,  or 
crannies  in  the  rock. 

Atalapha  was  already  at  home  when  the  door 
darkened,  and  in  came  his  mother  with  her  big 
handsome  mate.  What  a  strong  look  he  had,  and 
how  his  coat  did  shine.  Probably  he  did  not  realize 
that  Atalapha  was  his  child,  for  he  showed  his  teeth 
when  the  young  Bat  came  too  near  the  little  mother, 
and  by  a  warning  hiss  sent  him  to  the  far  side  of  the 
den.  He  did  no  more  than  this,  but  Atalapha  was 
afraid.  The  young  Bat  did  not  clearly  understand, 
161 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

but  he  realized  that  this  was  no  longer  his  home, 
that  the  bond  of  the  family  was  broken.  So  he 
came  no  more,  but  sought  a  den  for  himself,  feeling 
as  a  child  might  feel  when  suddenly  dropped  from 
being  mother's  pet,  for  whom  the  world  was  made, 
to  being  a  poor  little  outcast.  At  best  now  he  be- 
longed to  the  low  circle  of  the  young  Bats  whose 
powers  were  not  yet  formed.  There  was  no  joy 
in  Atalapha's  lone  cell  those  days;  but  it  was  the 
beginning  of  life  for  him.  He  learned  that  he  was  a 
very  unimportant  person,  and  must  begin  at  the 
bottom  and  go  it  all  alone.  This  was  his  humilia- 
^=>5PC—  „  tion  and  his  awakening. 
_ ^  The  love  dance  of  the  Bats  held  sway  supreme 

/    through  the  first  few  days  of  August,  then,  though 
its  opening  rapture  waned,  the  Red  Moon  was  a 
Honey  Moon  to  its  end.    And  when  the  Hunting 
*~f  /•*"    Moon  came  on  with  shorter  days  and  fewer  kinds  of 
f        game,  a  new  unrest  possessed  the  kindred  of  the 

silken  wings. 

^^  Atalapha's  parents  would  go  for  long  excursions, 

swinging  round  the  Marcy  Mount,  or  sometimes  a 

,  J*  grouP  of  many  friendly  pairs  would  soar  above  the 

zone  of  the  midnight  game  and  circle  high  as  though 

trying  their  wings  in  some  new  flight. 

Then  came  a  day  of  climax.    It  was  in  the  early 
dawning;  all  had  made  their  meal;  Atalapha  was 
162 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

flying  with  some  new  acquaintances  of  the  younger 
set,  when  the  soft  singing  "hee-oo,  hee-oo  "  was  taken 
up  by  all  and  trooping  together  from  divers  parts 
of  the  broad  valley  the  long-winged  coursers  came. 
They  swirled  like  smoke  around  the  cliffs  of  Marcy, 
they  careered  in  a  body,  then  they  began  to  ascend 
in  a  great  sweeping  spiral.  At  first  in  one  long 
wreathing  cloud,  but  later  in  two  separate  bodies, 
and  those  with  eyes  to  see  would  have  known  that 
the  upper  swarm  was  wholly  of  males,  the  lower  of 
female  Bats. 

The  clamor  of  their  calling  made  a  thin,  fine 
murmur  in  the  upper  air,  but  it  was  chilly  there, 
their  voices  died  away  and  with  one  impulse  they 
turned  to  the  south,  as  the  mountain-top  turned 
red,  and  flew  and  flew  and  flew. 

Every  male  of  that  gathering  was  there:  instinc- 
tively Atalapha  had  joined  them,  and  they  flew 
with  steady,  uncurveted  flight  in  ever-lengthening 
procession,  on  and  on,  all  day,  ignoring  the  sun, 
heeding  not  the  pang  of  hunger,  till  in  the  evening 
they  straggled  into  a  wood  far  to  the  southward, 
and  rested  in  the  trees  a  while  before  beginning 
to  hunt  for  food. 

The  females,  including  the  Little  Mother,  were 
left  behind  in  the  shadows  about  Mount  Marcy  to 
follow  in  another  band  when  the  males  were  well 

163 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

ahead,  for  such  is  the  way  of  the  Great  Northern 
Bat. 

For  long  after  the  arrival  of  the  van,  the  he  Bats 
came  straggling  into  that  welcome  woods.  The 
sun  went  down,  the  moon  arose,  and  still  belated 
wanderers  drifted  in,  yet  some  there  were  that 
never  came  at  all,  that  failed  and  fell  by  the  way. 
But  early,  among  those  that  never  flagged,  was 
Atalapha;  he  had  attached  himself  to  the  big  Bat 
that  really  was  his  father,  and  flying  as  he  flew,  he 
got  the  help  of  larger  wisdom,  for  the  old  Bat 
changed  his  course  to  fit  the  air  currents.  He 
avoided  a  head  wind.  He  sought  for  aiding  blasts. 
He  shunned  the  higher  ridges  that  make  fighting 
swirls  of  air.  He  neither  speeded  nor  slacked  nor 
sailed,  but  kept  up  the  steady,  slow  flap,  flap,  flap 
that  eats  up  miles  and  leagues  and  makes  great 
headway  with  the  least  of  drain.  So  passed  the 
day  on  the  first  long  trek,  and  Atalapha's  travels 
and  broader  education  had  begun. 

It  was  a  night  or  two  before  the  Bats  were  rested 
enough  to  continue  their  journey.  And  now  they 
took  shorter  stages,  for  the  frost  fear  that  had  come 
upon  them  in  the  north  was  goading  them  no 
longer.  Now  also  they  went  at  times  by  night. 
At  last  they  reached  the  sea  and  followed  the  main 
shoreline  with  the  land  to  the  sunset  side  and  the 

164 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

endless  blue  to  the  east.  Thus  after  the  waning 
of  the  Hunting  Moon,  the  Leaf-falling  Moon  found 
them  in  a  land  where  there  is  no  falling  of  the  leaf, 
where  the  trees  are  never  bare. 

Here  in  the  groves  of  palms,  where  purple  moths 
and  radiant  fireflies  make  a  fairy  scene  by  night, 
and  nature's  table  is  prepared  and  spread  in  every 
glade,  Atalapha  and  the  brethren  of  his  race  scat- 
tered each  to  seek  a  hunting  for  himself.  In  little 
groups  at  most  they  kept  together,  but  no  great 
crowds,  for  kings  go  not  in  companies  nor  princes 
in  mobs.  So  also  it  is  more  often  seen  tliat  the 
greatest  of  the  Bats  is  alone. 

Their  consorts,  too,  came  drifting  south  to  the 
land  of  winters  warm  and  never-failing  food.  But 
they  also  lived  their  own  lives,  and  if  by  chance 
they  met  their  mates  among  the  palms,  they  passed 
as  merely  kinsmen  with  whom  they  had  no  feud. 

NORTHWARD,  HOME  AGAIN 

Where  there  is  no  winter  there  can  be  no  wonder- 
ful spring.  Only  the  land  of  dreadful  cold  can  thrill 
our  souls  with  the  glad  yearly  miracle  of  bees  and 
violets,  where  just  a  month  before  was  snow  and 
fiercest  frost.  Yet  even  in  the  home  of  palms  and 
endless  warmth  the  Spring  Moon  came  with  hidden 
power;  not  a  mighty  change  to  hold  the  eye,  but  a 

165 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

secret  influence  that  reached  all  life.  The  northern 
songbirds  now  showed  different  plumes.  The  Wild 
Geese  and  the  Cranes  found  things  just  the  same  in 
this  land  of  winter  sun  and  food,  but  a  change  had 
come  inside.  An  unseen  prompter  persistent, 
reiterant,  unreasoning,  sang  in  Atalapha's  heart: 
"Away,  away;  up  and  away  I"  So  it  sang  in  every 
heart,  and  the  Bat  host  moved,  as  the  prairie  grass 
is  moved  by  the  unseen  wind,  headed  all  one  way, 
turned  in  the  moon  of  Wild  Geese,  moved  in  the 
month  of  Greening  Grass,  swinging  northward 
with  a  common  impulse,  even  as  they  had  come  to 
the  south  in  the  autumn. 

They  made  neither  haste  nor  speed;  but  strag- 
gling as  before,  in  a  larger  company  than  before,  it 
might  have  been  noted  that  in  the  Blue  Mountains 
many  left  the  host  that  followed  the  white  wailing 
line  of  the  sea,  and  took  another  course,  for  these 
were  summer  dwellers  in  the  far  northwest. 

Atalapha  and  his  kindred  of  the  pine  woods  kept 
on.  Their  nightly  journey  and  their  nightly  meals 
covered  the  country  as  fast  as  it  was  won  again  by 
victorious  spring.  One  night  a  sudden  change  of 
weather  sent  all  the  Bats  into  hiding-places,  where 
they  huddled  together  and  in  many  cases  became 
insensible  from  the  cold.  For  three  days  they  lay 
hid  and  seeming  dead,  but  all  revived  when  the  sun 
166 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

grew  warm  again,  and,  reassembling,  took  up  their 
.lightly  northern  trek. 

Bats  have  a  strong  homing  instinct,  and  group 
after  group  dropped  from  the  main  route  as  they 
reached  the  first  river  valleys  or  mountains  that  had 
been  their  guides  coming  south.  When  at  last  the 
far  green  woods  loomed  up  ahead,  Atalapha  felt 
the  glad  thrill  of  "Home  again."  But  it  was  not 
so  to  be.  His  guides,  the  flying  speeders,  never 
halted.  He  was  free,  of  course,  but  another  impulse 
was  on  him.  He  had  no  conscious  expression  for 
the  fact,  but  he  felt  that  this  was  a  range  for  lady 
Bats;  now  he  was  a  big  strong  male. 

Whither? 

This  is  the  rule  of  the  tribe,  grown  up  and  estab- 
lished for  reasons  unknown,  except  that  it  works  out 
well,  that  certain  parts  of  the  range  are  the  homes 
of  the  females,  the  nurseries  of  the  young.  The 
males  are  supposed  to  go  to  the  farther  mountains, 
to  higher  uplands,  and  remain  till  the  time  of  the 
great  annual  reunion,  the  nuptials  of  the  tribe. 

This  is  the  law  of  the  Bats.  There  are  no  stripes 
or  heavy  tolls  assigned  or  penalty  expressed  for 
those  who  break  it,  excepting  that  the  Bat  who 
lives  where  he  should  not  live  is  left  by  himself, 
shunned  and  despised  by  his  kin. 

Thus  the  Marcy  Vale  had  no  lasting  hold  on 

167 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

Atalapha,  and  he  flew  with  the  dwindling  troop 
his  father  led,  till  the  roaring  Saranac  was  blue  be- 
neath their  wings. 

WINGS  AND  FRIENDSHIPS 

Atalapha  had  been  growing  all  winter.  His 
father  no  longer  looked  so  very  big  and  strong; 
indeed  the  son  had  dimly  felt  that  the  once  big 
Bat  was  shrinking  strangely.  He  himself  was 
two  heads  wider  in  his  wing  expanse,  and  the  dull 
yellow  of  his  body  fur  had  given  place  to  rich  ochre 
and  amber  brown  with  a  wonderful  frosting  like 
silvery  snow  bespread  on  banks  of  gold.  But  these 
things  he  neither  knew  nor  thought  of;  his  con- 
scious pride  was  this:  the  speed  and  strength  and 
tireless  force  of  his  glorious  silken  wings. 

On  his  wings  he  took  his  prey. 

On  his  wings  he  eluded  the  Owls  and  late-flying 
Hawks  or  climbing  beasts  that  were  his  only  foes. 

On  his  wings  he  raced  with  his  fellows  or  skidded 
and  glided,  pirouetted  and  curveted  in  the  air, 
playing  pranks  with  Owl  and  Nighthawk  as  a 
greyhound  plays  round  a  Bear. 

The  appetite  for  food  might  quickly  flag,  but 

the  joy  of  speeding  like  a  falling  star  while  the 

tang  wind  of  the  dawn  weni  whistling  past  his 

ears,  the  glory  of  a  lightning  swift  career,  with 

168 


Atalapha,  a  "Winged  Brownie 

none  propelling  but  his  own  strong  nervous  force, 
with  quick  coordinate  life  in  every  film  and  fibre 
of  his  frame,  with  exquisite  sensibility  of  power 
and  risk  and  change  of  breath,  with  absolute  con- 
trol of  every  part  and  move.  What  greater  joy 
could  there  be  to  Old  Mother  Nature's  slow-made 
perfect  flying  thing  than  this  the  perfect  joy  of 
perfect  flight  ? 

Men  have  so  long  been  envious  of  the  flies  and 
birds  for  their  mastery  of  the  air  and  pictured  theirs 
a  life  of  Paradise  restored,  they  have  forgotten 
that  there  is  still  another  higher  creature,  a  being 
nearer  to  ourselves  whose  babes  are  born  alive, 
whose  brain  is  on  a  higher  plane  than  that  of  any 
bird,  whose  powers  perceptive  are  of  exquisite 
acuteness,  whose  make-up  is  attuned  to  sounds 
and  senses  we  labor  hard  to  prove;  that  nature 
made  many  a  blundering  trial  with  the  scaled  and 
feathered  folk,  but  all  her  finished  summing  up  of 
flight  she  centred  in  this  her  favorite,  the  high- 
born, cave-born  Bat,  that  clad  in  exquisite  furs, 
mounted  on  silent  silken  wings,  equipped  with 
wonderful  senses,  has  so  long  led  his  blameless 
life  so  near  our  eyes,  and  yet  so  little  on  our  ken. 

With  strength  in  his  body  and  courage  in  his 
heart,  Atalapha  now  led  the  twilight  host  that 
sallied  forth  from  hollow  tree  or  bosky  hemlock 
169 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

top.  Each  evening  their  routine  was  the  same. 
After  sunset  the  horde  of  smaller  Bats,  then  with 
twilight  the  smaller  group  of  the  Great  Northern 
Bats.  Leaving  their  den,  they  flew  first  to  the 
river,  where  they  drank  as  they  sped  along.  Then 
for  half  an  hour  they  hawked  and  fed  on  insects 
taken  on  the  wing.  Last  came  a  time  of  social 
play,  racing,  chasing,  games  of  tag  and  touch- 
jae-not,  with  others  of  a  dangerous  kind.  One  of 
these,  a  favorite  in  time  of  heavy  heat,  was  shoot- 
ing the  chutes  where  the  Saranac  leaps  over  a  rocky 
ledge  to  be  forgotten  in  foam.  The  reckless  young- 
sters of  the  Bat  fraternity  would  drop  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  arrowy  flood  above  the  fall,  and  as 
they  were  shot  into  the  abyss,  would  ply  their 
dripping  wings  and  sail  through  the  spray-mist 
to  repeat  the  chute,  perhaps.  There  was  no  lack 
of  danger  in  the  sport,  and  more  than  one  that 
summer  took  the  leap  to  be  seen  no  more. 

Still  another  game  of  hazard  had  a  little  vogue. 
In  the  Saranac  were  great  grown  Trout;  at  the 
rare  times  when  the  Northern  Bats  chanced  out 
before  the  sun  was  wholly  gone,  these  Trout  would 
leap  at  flies  that  the  lesser  Bats  were  chasing,  and 
more  than  once  a  Bat  that  ventured  low  was  leaped 
at  by  the  monster  Trout  and  barely  escaped. 

Then  in  a  spirit  of  daredevil  did  Atalapha  skim 
170 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

low  and  tempt  the  Trout  to  leap.  None  but  the 
largest  would  rise  to  such  a  bait.  But  rise  they 
did,  and  nothing  saved  the  king  of  the  air  from 
the  king  of  the  pool  but  a  marvellous  upward 
bound  of  lightning  speed.  There  was  no  lack  of 
excitement  in  it,  but  when  at  last  a  little  Bat  was 
caught  and  gulped  by  a  Trout  of  arrowy  swiftness, 
and  Atalapha  himself  had  the  skin  ripped  from  his 
tail  tip,  the  sport  of  trouting  lost  its  charm. 

Atalapha's  den  was  now  a  knot-hole  in  an  oak. 
The  doorway  was  a  tight  fit  as  every  cave-dweller 
desires  it,  but  inside  was  ample  room  and  every 
comfort  that  shape  and  sheltered  place  could  give. 
But  on  a  luckless  day  it  occurred  to  an  unscrupu- 
lous Flicker  with  defective  property  instincts  that 
he  could  improve  this  hole  by  enlargement  and 
convert  it  to  uses  of  his  own.  So  after  listening 
to  his  nagging  tap,  tap,  tap,  all  one  day,  and  seeing 
the  hole  get  unpleasantly  large,  Atalapha  was 
forced  to  seek  another  den. 

The  place  of  his  choice  was  not  unlike  the  first, 
but  the  entry  and  den  both  were  larger.  Yet  the 
former  was  too  small  to  admit  a  Red  Squirrel,  and 
the  Bat  moved  in. 

Next  morning  when  he  returned  from  his  early 
meal  and  was  going  off  to  sleep,  he  was  aroused 
by  a  peculiar  scratching.  Then  the  hole  was 
171 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

darkened  and  in  came  a  great  furry  creature  with 
big,  black  shiny  eyes.  At  first  it  filled  the  Bat  with 
fear,  for  there  was  no  escape.  But  it  was  only  a 
gentle  mother  Flying  Squirrel  looking  for  a  nursery 
den.  To  a  being  of  such  exquisite  sense  power  as 
a  Bat,  much  knowledge  comes  without  a  sound  or 
a  visible  sign,  and  in  some  such  hidden  way  a  some- 
thing told  Atalapha,  "Be  not  afraid.  This  gentle, 
soft-furred,  big-eyed  creature  will  never  do  you 
harm." 

Thus  it  was  that  Atalapha  and  Fawn-eyes  came 
to  share  the  den,  and  when  the  babies  of  the  Flying 
Squirrel  came,  they  found  a  sort  of  foster-brother 
in  the  Bat.  Not  that  he  fed  or  tended  them,  but 
each  knew  the  other  would  do  him  no  harm;  both 
kinds  loved  to  be  warm,  and  they  snuggled  together 
in  the  common  den,  in  closeness  of  friendship  that 
grew  as  the  season  passed. 

THE  WINGED  TIGER  AND  THE  UNKNOWN  DEATH 

"  Hoo-hoo-ho-hooooo  /  "  A  deep,  booming  sound — 
it  came  filling  all  the  valley.  Atalapha  heard 
it  with  a  scornful  indifference.  Fawn-eyes  heard 
it  with  a  little  anxiety.  For  this  was  the  hoot 
of  the  Great  Horned  Owl,  the  terror  of  the  woods, 
the  deadly,  perhaps  the  deadliest,  enemy  of  Bat 

and  Flying  Squirrel.  Both  had  heard  it  before, 
172 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

and  many  times,  but  now  it  was  so  near  that  they 
must  be  prepared  to  face  and  in  some  way  balk 
the  flying  death,  or  suffer  hunger  till  it  passed. 

"  Hoo-hoo-hooooooooo  I "  it  came  yet  nearer.  Old 
Fire-eyes  and  his  mate  were  hunting  in  this  valley 
now.  It  behooved  all  lesser  revellers  to  heed  their 
every  move,  and  keep  in  mind  that  the  grim  and 
glaring  tiger  of  the  pines  might  any  moment  be 
upon  them.  Atalapha  asked  no  odds  but  clear 
sky-way.  Fawn-eyes  had  little  fear  except  for  her 
brood,  and  for  herself  asked  only  a  thicket  of  lac- 
ing boughs.  And  both  went  forth  as  the  shadows 
fell. 

Then  came  a  rare  and  wrenching  chain  of  ill 
events!  Fawn-eyes  was  doing  her  best  to  swoop 
across  a  twenty-five-foot  space,  when  the  huge  and 
silent  enemy  perceived  her,  and  wheeled  with 
lightning  dash  to  win  the  prey.  But  she  reached 
the  trunk  and  scrambling  round  took  another  flying 
leap  for  the  next  tree,  hoping  to  gain  safety  in  some 
mass  of  twigs,  or,  safer  still,  a  hollow  trunk  that 
was  not  far  away.  But  the  Owl  was  quick,  and 
wheeling,  diving,  darting,  was  ever  coming  closer. 
The  swooping  of  his  huge  bulk,  the  vast  commotion 
of  his  onset,  caught  Atalapha's  attention.  He  came 
flying  by,  out  of  curiosity  perhaps,  and  was  roused 
to  find  first  that  his  enemy  was  astir  and  next  that 

173 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

the  victim  pursued  was  Fawn-eyes,  his  friend  and 
den  mate.  It  takes  but  little  to  make  a  Bat  swoop 
for  a  foeman's  face,  even  though  he  turn  before  he 
strike  it,  and  the  combination  brought  the  big  Bat 
like  an  arrow  at  the  Owl's  great  head.  He  ducked 
and  blinked,  and  Fawn-eyes  reached  the  hollow 
tree,  to  scramble  in  and  hide  in  a  far  small  crack, 
the  Owl  in  close  pursuit.  Again  Atalapha  swooped 
at  the  big  bird's  head,  rebounding  as  Old  Fire-eyes 
ducked,  but  rebounding — alas!  right  into  the  very 
claws  of  the  second  Owl  who  had  hurried  when  she 
heard  the  snapping  of  her  partner's  bill.  And  down 
she  struck!  Had  Atalapha  been  ten  times  as  big 
he  would  have  been  riddled,  crushed,  and  torn; 
but  his  body,  small  and  sinewy,  was  over-reached. 
Not  the  claws  but  the  heel  had  struck,  and  drove 
him  down,  so  he  dropped  into  the  hollow  tree, 
and  scrambling  quickly  found  a  sheltering  cranny 
in  the  wall. 

Now  was  there  a  strange  state  of  siege.  Two 
huge  Owls,  one  out,  one  in  the  hollow  trunk,  and 
in  two  lesser  passages  the  Bat  and  the  Flying 
Squirrel.  The  Owls  had  never  lost  sight  of  their 
prey,  but  they  could  not  get  their  claws  into  the 
holes.  Again  and  again  they  forced  in  one  armed 
toe,  but  the  furred  ones  crouching  in  their  refuges 
could  by  shrinking  back  keep  just  beyond  the 

174 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

reach  of  that  deadly  grip.  Sometimes  the  Owl, 
failing  to  reach  with  claw,  would  turn  his  huge 
face  to  the  place,  snap  his  bill,  and  glare  with  those 
shiny  eyes  or  make  the  tree  trunk  boom  with  his 
loud  "Hoo-hoo-hoo-ho!" 

Sometimes  one  of  the  monsters  went  off  hunting. 
But  always  one  stayed  there  on  guard;  and  so 
the  whole  night  passed.  It  was  only  when  the 
sunrise  was  at  hand  that  remembrance  of  their 
own  unfed,  unguarded  nestlings  took  the  Owls 
away;  and  so  the  siege  was  ended. 

There  were  other  friendships  and  other  hazards 
in  the  life  of  Atalapha.  Many  of  the  male  com- 
munity were  good  fellows,  to  meet  and  pass  in 
friendly  evening  flight.  His  father,  now  quite 
small  it  seemed,  was  of  the  brotherhood,  meeting 
and  passing  or  ceding  little  courtesies  of  the  road 
as  is  the  way  of  Bats;  but  he  was  a  comrade,  noth- 
ing more. 

Some  of  these  Bats  lived  in  little  groups  of  two 
or  three,  but  most  had  a  single  cell  where  they  slept. 
The  little  Black  and  Brown-faced  Bats  might  roost 
in  swarms,  but  the  Great  Northern  Courser  of 
the  night  more  often  dens  alone.  This  was  the 
habit  of  Atalapha,  except  during  that  brief  summer 
time  that  he  shared  his  home  with  Fawn-eyes. 

The  perils  of  his  life  were  first  the  birds  of  prey, 

175 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

the  silent,  lumbering  Owls;  the  late,  or  very  early, 
flying  Falcons;  the  Weasel,  or  the  Red  Squirrel 
that  might  find  and  enter  his  den  while  he  slept; 
the  Trout  that  might  leap  and  catch  him  as  he 
took  his  drink  a-wing.  And  still  worse  than  these 
the  deadly  Acarus  that  lodges  in  the  Bat's  deep 
fur.  It  is  sure  that  the  more  the  Bats  harbor 
together  in  numbers,  the  more  they  are  plagued 
by  the  Acarus.  Yet  there  is  a  remedy.  Instinct 
and  example  were  doubtless  the  power  that  had 
taught  him,  for  Atalapha  clearly  knew  that  when 
some  Acarus  lodged  in  his  fur  and  made  itself  felt 
as  a  stinging  tickly  nuisance,  the  only  course  for 
him  was  a  thorough  hunt.  Hanging  himself  up 
by  one  foot,  he  worked  with  the  other,  aided  by  his 
jaws,  his  lips,  his  tongue,  and  the  supple  thumbs 
on  either  wing. 

There  was  no  part  of  his  body  that  he  could  not 
reach;  in  him  the  instinct  of  cleanliness  was  strong, 
so  he  never  suffered  vermin  in  his  fur.  When,  as 
'it  chanced,  through  no  fault  of  his  the  den  became 
infested,  there  was  but  one  remedy,  that  was  move 
out. 

Yet  one  other  peculiar  menace  was  there  in  the 
lives  of  the  Saranac  community.  Far  up  on  the 
higher  waters  one  of  the  big  human  things  that  can- 
not fly  had  built  a  huge  nest.  Across  the  river,  too, 
176 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

it  had  made  a  thing  like  a  smooth  Beaver  dam  and, 
Beaver-like,  it  had  cut  the  trees  for  a  wide  space 
around.  All  this  was  comprehensible,  but  there 
was  another  strange  affair.  The  two-legged  thing 
had  built  a  huge  round  nest  of  stones  in  the  side  of  a 
hill  and  then  when  it  was  lined  with  tree  trunks,  it 
glowed  by  night  with  the  red  mystery,  and  strange 
fumes  came  pouring  out,  ascending  to  the  sky  in  a 
space  which  changed  with  the  wind.  There  was  a 
weird  attraction  about  this  high  place  of  different 
air.  Bats  would  flutter  near  the  furnace  as  it 
glowed  by  night  and  sent  an  upward  wind  of  heat 
and  pungent  smell.  Insects  came,  it  is  true,  at- 
tracted by  the  light,  but  surely  the  Bats  did  not 
come  for  that,  as  there  were  plenty  of  insects  else- 
where. Perhaps  it  was  to  taste  the  tingling,  danger- 
ous vapors  that  they  came,  just  as  some  men  find 
pleasure  in  teasing  a  coiled  rattler  or  lingering 
barely  out  of  reach  of  a  chained  and  furious  Bear. 
Some  Bats  came  pursuing  their  lawful  prey,  and  if 
they  chanced  to  be  flying  low  might  enter  the  outer 
edge  of  the  deadly  gas  before  they  knew,  for  it  had 
no  form  or  hue. 

Atalapha  plunged  right  into  the  vapor  of  the 

lime   kiln    once.    He   went    gasping,    sputtering 

through,  nearly  falling,  but  was  able  to  sustain  his 

flight  till  his  breath  came  back,  and  slowly  he 

177 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

recovered.  Others  were  less  lucky,  and  more  than 
one  of  the  birds  of  prey  had  learned  to  linger  near 
the  fiery  kiln,  for  feathered  things  as  well  as  Bats 
were  often  so  stupefied  by  its  fumes  that  they  be- 
came an  easy  prey. 

If  it  had  any  naming  in  the  memory  of  the  Bats, 
it  was  the  Place  of  the  Unknown  Death. 

ATALAPHA  WOUNDED  AND  CAPTIVE 

A  good  naturalist  who  found  Bats  worthy  of  his 
whole  life  study  has  left  us  a  long  account  of  a  Bat 
roost  where  ten  thousand  of  the  lesser  tribes  had 
colonized  the  garret  of  a  country  dweller's  home. 
It  was  in  a  land  of  flies,  mosquitoes,  and  many  sing- 
ing pests  with  stings,  but  all  about  the  house  was 
an  Eden  where  such  insects  were  unknown.  Each 
Bat  needs  many  hundred  little  insects  every  night, 
what  wonder  that  they  had  swept  the  region  clear. 

Slow-moving  science  has  gathered  up  facts,  and 
deciphered  a  part  of  the  dim  manuscript  of  truth 
that  has  in  it  the  laws  of  life. 

We  know  now  that  typhoid,  malaria,  yellow 
fever,  and  many  sorts  of  dreadful  maladies  are 
borne  about  by  the  mosquitoes  and  the  fly.  With- 
out such  virus  carriers  these  deadly  pests  would 
die  out.  And  of  all  the  creatures  in  the  woods 
there  is  none  that  does  more  noble  work  for  man 
178 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

than  the  skimming,  fur-clad  Bat.  Perhaps  he  kills 
a  thousand  insects  in  a  night.  All  of  these  are 
possibly  plague-bearers.  Some  of  them  are  surely 
infected  and  carry  in  their  tiny  baleful  bodies  the 
power  to  desolate  a  human  home.  Yes!  every 
time  a  Bat  scoops  up  a  flying  bug  it  deals  a  telling 
blow  at  mankind's  foes.  There  is  no  creature 
winged  or  walking  in  the  woods  that  should  be 
better  prized,  protected,  blessed,  than  this,  the 
harmless,  beautiful,  beneficent  Bat. 

And  yet,  young  Haskins  of  the  Mill,  when  his 
uncle  gave  him  a  shotgun  for  his  birthday,  must 
need  begin  with  practice  on  these  fur-clad  swallows 
of  the  night  that  skimmed  about  the  milldam  when 
the  sun  went  down  behind  the  nearer  hills. 

Again  and  again  he  fired  without  effect.  The 
flittering  swarm  was  baffling  in  its  speed  or  its 
tortuous  course.  But  ammunition  was  plentiful, 
and  he  blazed  away.  One  or  two  of  the  smaller 
Bats  dropped  into  the  woods,  while  others  escaped 
only  to  (lie  of  their  wounds.  The  light  was  nearly 
gone  from  the  western  sky  when  Atalapha,  too, 
came  swooping  down  the  valley  about  the  limpid 
pond.  His  long,  sharp  wings  were  set  as  he  sailed 
to  drink  from  the  river  surface.  His  unusual  size 
caught  the  gunner's  eye,  he  aimed  and  fired.  With 
a  scream  of  pain  the  great  Bat  fell  in  the  stream. 
179 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

and  the  heartless  human  laughed  triumphant,  then 
ran  to  the  margin  to  look  for  his  victim. 

One  wing  was  useless,  but  Atalapha  was  swim- 
ming bravely  with  the  other.  He  had  nearly 
reached  the  land  when  the  boy  reached  out  with 
a  stick  and  raked  him  ashore,  then  stooped  to  se- 
cure the  victim;  but  Atalapha  gave  such  a  succes- 
sion of  harsh  shrieks  of  pain  and  anger  that  the 
boy  recoiled.  He  came  again,  however,  with  a  tin 
can;  the  wounded  Bat  was  roughly  pushed  in  with 
a  stick  and  carried  to  the  house  to  be  shut  up  in  a 
cage. 

That  boy  was  not  deliberately  cruel  or  wicked. 
He  was  simply  ignorant  and  thoughtless.  He 
had  no  idea  that  the  Bat  was  a  sensitive,  high- 
strung  creature,  a  mortal  of  absolutely  blameless 
life,  a  hidden  worker,  a  man-defender  from  the  evil 
powers  that  plot  and  walk  in  darkness,  the  real 
Brownie  of  the  woods,  the  uncrowned  king  of  the 
kindly  little  folk  of  Shadowland;  and  so  in  striking 
down  Atalapha  the  fool  had  harmed  his  own,  but 
the  linking  of  his  life  with  the  inner  chain  of  life 
was  hidden  from  him.  Cruelty  was  far  from  his 
thoughts;  it  began  with  the  hunting  instinct,  then 
came  the  desire  to  possess,  and  the  gratification  of 
a  kindly  curiosity — all  good  enough.  But  the 
methods  were  hard  on  the  creature  caught.  The 
180 


Atalapha,  a  Winded  Brownie 

boy  pressed  his  nose  against  the  close  wire  netting 
and  stared  at  the  wet  and  trembling  prisoner. 
Then  the  boy's  little  sister  came,  and  gazed  with 
big  blue  eyes  of  fear  and  wonder. 

"Oh,  give  it  something  to  eat,"  was  her  kind 
suggestion.  So  bread,  for  which  the  wounded  one 
had  no  appetite,  was  pushed  between  the  bars. 
Next  morning  of  course  the  bread  was  there  un- 
touched. 

"Try  it  with  some  meat,"  suggested  one;  so  meat, 
and  later,  fish,  fruit,  vegetables,  and,  lastly,  in- 
sects were  offered  to  the  sad-faced  captive,  with- 
out getting  any  response. 

Then  the  mother  said:  "Have  you  given  it  any 
water?"  No,  they  had  never  thought  of  that.  A 
saucerful  was  brought,  and  Atalapha  in  a  fever 
of  thirst  drank  long  and  deeply,  then  refreshed  he 
hung  himself  from  a  corner  of  the  cage  and  fell 
asleep.  Next  morning  the  insects  and  all  the 
fresh  meat  were  gone;  and  now  the  boy  and  his 
sister  had  no  difficulty  in  feeding  their  captive. 

THE  WINGS  THAT  SEE 

Atalapha's  hurt  was  merely  a  flesh  wound  in  the 

muscle  of  his  breast.    He  recovered  quickly,  and 

in  a  week  was  well  again.    His  unhinging  had  been 

largely  from  the  shock,  for  the  exquisite  nervous 

.  181 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Bfownie 

sensibilities  of  the  Bat  are  perhaps  unequalled 
in  the  animal  world,  how  fine  none  know  that 
have  not  been  confronted  with  much  evidence. 
There  was  once,  long  ago,  a  cruel  man,  a  student 
of  natural  history,  who  was  told  that  a  Bat  has 
such  marvellous  gift  of  nerves,  and  such  a  tactile 
sense  that  it  could  see  with  its  wings  if  its  eyes 
were  gone.  He  did  not  hesitate  to  put  it  to  the 
proof,  and  has  left  a  record  that  sounds  to  us  like 
a  tale  of  magic. 

There  was  sickness  in  the  small  settlement,  and 
the  doctor  calling,  learned  of  the  children's  captive. 
He  knew  of  Spallanzani's  account  and  was  minded 
to  test  the  truth;  but  he  was  not  minded  to  rob  a 
fellow-being  of  its  precious  eyesight.  He  could 
find  other  means. 

Opening  the  cage,  he  seized  the  fur-clad  prisoner, 
then  dropping  deftly  a  little  soft  wax  on  each 
eyelid,  he  covered  all  with  adhesive  plaster  so 
that  the  eyes  were  closed,  absolutely  sealed;  there 
was  no  possibility  of  one  single  ray  of  entering 
light.  And  then  he  let  the  captive  fly  in  the  room. 
Strong  once  more  on  the  wing,  Atalapha  rose  at 
once,  in  wavering  flight,  then  steadied  himself 
and,  hovering  in  the  air,  he  dashed  for  the  ceiling. 
But  a  moment  before  striking  he  wheeled  and 
skimmed  along  the  cornice,  not  touching  the  wall, 
182 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

and  not  in  seeming  doubt.  The  doctor  reached 
out  to  catch  him,  but  the  Bat  dodged  instantly 
and  successfully.  The  doctor  pursued  with  an 
insect  net  in  hand,  but  the  blinded  Bat  had  some 
other  sense  that  warned  him.  Darting  across  the 
room,  he  passed  through  the  antlers  of  a  Deer's 
head,  and  though  he  had  to  shorten  wing  on  each 
side,  he  touched  them  not.  When  the  pursuing 
net  drove  him  from  the  ceiling,  he  flew  low  among 
the  chairs,  passing  under  legs  and  between  rungs 
at  full  speed,  with  not  a  touch.  Then  in  a  mo- 
ment of  full  career  near  the  floor  he  halted  and 
hovered  like  a  humming-bird  before  the  tiny  crack 
under  the  door,  as  though  it  promised  escape.  All 
along  this  he  fluttered,  then  at  the  corner  he  fol- 
lowed it  upward,  and,  hovering  at  the  keyhole, 
he  made  a  long  pause.  This  seemed  to  be  a  way 
of  escape,  for  the  fresh  air  came  in.  But  he  decided 
that  it  was  too  small,  for  he  did  not  go  near,  and  he 
certainly  did  not  see  it.  Then  he  darted  toward  the 
stove,  but  recoiled  before  too  close.  The  roaring 
draft  of  the  damper  held  him  a  moment,  but  he 
quickly  flew,  avoiding  the  stovepipe  wire,  and  hov- 
ered at  another  hairlike  crack  along  the  window. 

Now  the  doctor  stretched  many  threads  in  angles 
of  the  room  and  set  small  rings  of  wire  in  the  nar- 
row ways.  Driven  upward  from  the  floor,  the 

183 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

blinded  prisoner  skimmed  at  speed  along  the  high 
corners  of  the  room,  he  dodged  the  threads,  he 
shortened  wing  and  passed  in  full  flight  through 
the  rings,  and  he  wheeled  from  every  obstacle  as 
though  he  had  perfect  vision,  exact  knowledge  of 
its  place  and  form. 

Then,  last,  the  doctor  gave  a  crucial  test.  On 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  he  set  a  dish  of 
water  and  released  a  blue-bottle  fly.  Every  one 
present  was  cautioned  to  keep  absolutely  still. 
Atalapha  was  hanging  by  his  hind  feet  from  a  corner 
of  the  room,  vainly  trying  to  scratch  the  covering 
from  his  eyes.  Presently  he  took  wing  again. 
The  dead  silence  reassured  him.  He  began  once 
more  his  search  for  escape.  He  made  a  great 
square-cornered  flight  all  around  the  door.  He 
traversed  at  a  wing  length  the  two  sides  of  the 
sash,  and  then  inspected  the  place  where  the 
cross-bars  met.  He  passed  a  mouse  hole,  with  a 
momentary  pause,  but  hovered  long  at  a  tiny 
knot-hole  in  the  outer  wall.  Then  reviving  his 
confidence  in  the  silence  of  the  room,  he  skimmed 
several  times  round  and,  diving  toward  the  pan, 
drank  as  he  flew.  Now  the  fly  that  had  settled  on 
the  wall  went  off  with  a  loud  hum.  Instantly 
Atalapha  wheeled  in  pursuit.  It  darted  past  the 
Deer's  antlers  and  through  the  loops  and  zigzag 
184 


Atalapha,  a  Wingfcd  Brownie 

threads  round  here  and  there,  but  not  for  long. 
Within  half  the  room's  length  the  fly  was  snatched 
in  full  career.  Its  legs  and  wings  went  floating 
away  and  the  body  made  a  pleasant  bite  of  food 
for  the  gifted  one. 

What  further  proof  could  any  ask,  what  stronger 
test  could  be  invented?  The  one  with  the  won- 
derful wings  was  the  one  with  the  tactile  power 
that  poor  blind  man  gropes  hard  for  words  to 
picture,  even  in  the  narrow  measure  that  he  can 
comprehend  it. 

Tired  with  the  unwonted  flight,  Atalapha  was 
hanging  from  the  wall.  His  silky  seal-brown  sides 
were  heaving  just  a  little  with  the  strain.  The 
butterfly  net  was  deftly  dropped  upon  him;  then 
with  warm  water  and  skilful  care  the  plasters  and 
wax  were  removed,  and  the  prisoner  restored  to 
his  cage,  to  be  a  marvel  and  to  furnish  talk  for 
many  a  day  as  "the  Bat  that  could  see  with  his 
wings." 

Then  in  the  second  week  of  captive  life  there 
was  a  change:  the  boy  came  no  more  with  coarse 
lumps  of  food,  the  sister  alone  was  feeder  and  jailer, 
and  she  was  listless.  She  barely  renewed  the 
water,  and  threw  in  the  food,  taking  little  note  of 
the  restless  prisoner  or  the  neglected  cage.  Then 
one  day  she  did  not  come  at  all,  and  next  day 
185 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

after  hasty  feeding  left  the  door  unlocked.  That 
night  Atalapha,  ever  searching  for  escape,  trying 
every  wire  and  airhole,  pushed  back  the  door,  then 
skimmed  into  the  room,  and  through  an  open  win- 
dow launched  out  into  the  glorious  night  again 
upon  his  glorious  wings,  free!  free!  free!  And 
he  swooped  and  sailed  in  the  sweet  fresh  air 
of  the  starry  night,  and  sailed  and  soared  and 
sang. 

And  who  shall  tell  the  history  of  his  bright  young 
jailers  at  the  mill?  Little  is  known  but  this:  the 
pestilence  born  of  the  flies  alighted  on  that  home, 
and  when  the  grim  one  left  it  there  were  two  new 
mounds,  short  mounds,  in  the  sleeping  ground  that 
is  overlooked  by  the  wooden  tower.  Who  can  tell 
us  what  snowflake  set  the  avalanche  arolling,  or 
what  was  the  one,  the  very  spark  which,  quenched, 
had  saved  the  royal  city  from  the  flames.  This 
only  we  know:  that  the  Bats  were  destroying 
the  bearers  of  the  plague  about  that  house;  many 
Bats  had  fallen  by  the  gun,  and  the  plague  struck 
in  that  house  where  the  blow  was  hardest  to  be 
borne.  We  do  not  know.  It  is  a  chain  with  many 
links;  we  have  not  light  to  see;  and  the  only  guide 
that  is  always  safe  to  follow  in  the  gloom  is  the 
golden  thread  of  kindness,  the  gospel  of  Assisi's 
Saint. 

186 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 


ATALAPHA  MEETS  WITH  S&VER-BROWN 

The  Thunder  Moon  was  passing  now.  Atalapha 
was  well  and  strong  as  ever,  yes,  more  than  ever 
before.  He  was  now  in  his  flush  of  prime.  His 
ample  wings  were  longest  in  the  tribe,  his  fur  was 
full  and  rich;  and  strong  in  him  was  a  heart  of 
courage,  a  latent  furnace  of  desire.  Strange  im- 
pulses and  vague  came  on  him  at  times.  So  he 
went  careering  over  the  mountains,  or  fetching 
long,  sweeping  flights  over  the  forest  lakes  from 
Far  Champlain  to  Placid's  rippling  blue. 

The  exuberant  joy  of  flight  was  perhaps  the 
largest  impulse,  but  the  seeking  for  change,  the 
hankering  for  adventure  were  there. 

He  sailed  a  long  way  toward  Marcy  Mount  one 
night,  and  was  returning  in  the  dawning  when  he 
was  conscious  of  nearing  a  place  of  peril.  A  dull 
glow  in  the  valley  ahead — the  Unknown  Death. 
And  he  veered  to  the  west  to  avoid  that  invisible 
column  of  poison,  when  far  to  the  east  of  him 
he  heard  a  loud  screeching,  and  peering  toward  the 
broad  band  of  day  that  lay  behind  the  eastern  hill- 
tops, he  saw  a  form  go  by  at  speed  with  a  larger 
one  behind  it. 

Curiosity,  no  doubt,  was  the  first  motive  to  draw 
him  near,  and  then  he  saw  a  Bat,  one  of  his  own 

187 


Atalapha,  *  Winged  Brownie 

kind,  a  stranger  to  him  and  of  smaller  finer  make 
than  his  robust  comrades  on  the  Saranac.  Its 
form  brought  back  memories  of  his  mother,  and 
it  was  with  something  more  than  passing  sympathy 
he  saw  she  was  being  done  to  death  by  a  bird  of 
prey.  It  was  early,  but  already  the  ravenous 
Chicken-hawk  was  about  and  haunting  a  place 
that  had  yielded  him  good  hunting  before.  But 
why  should  a  Bat  fear  the  Chicken-hawk?  There 
is  no  flyer  in  the  sky  that  can  follow  the  Great 
Hoary  Bat,  but  follow  he  did,  and  the  Bat,  making 
wretched  haste  to  escape  and  seeming  to  forget  the 
tricks  and  arrowy  speed  of  her  kind,  was  losing  in 
an  easy  race.  Why?  Something  had  sapped 
her  strength.  Maybe  she  did  not  know  what, 
maybe  she  never  knew,  but  her  brain  was  reeling, 
her  lungs  were  choking,  she  had  unwittingly  crossed 
the  zone  of  the  Unknown  Death;  and  the  Hawk 
screeched  aloud  for  the  triumph  already  in  sight. 

The  fierce  eyes  were  glaring,  the  cruel  beak  was 
gaping,  the  deadly  talons  reached.  But  the  stim- 
ulus of  death  so  near  made  the  numbed  Bat  dodge 
and  wheel,  and  again;  but  each  time  by  a  narrower 
space  escaped.  She  tried  to  reach  a  thicket,  but 
the  Hawk  was  overcunning  and  kept  between. 
One  more  plunge,  the  victim  uttered  a  low  cry  of 
despair,  when  whizz  past  the  very  eyes  of  the 
188 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

great  Hawk  went  a  Bat,  and  the  Hawk  recoiled 
before  he  knew  that  this  was  another.  Flash, 
flap,  flutter,  just  before  his  eyes,  and  just  beyond 
his  reach,  came  the  newcomer  full  of  strength  and 
power,  quicker  than  lightning,  absolutely  scorn- 
ing the  slow,  clumsy  Hawk,  while  Silver-brown 
dropped  limply  out  of  sight  to  be  lost  in  a  hemlock 
top. 

Now  the  Hawk  was  roused  to  fury.  He  struck 
and  dived  and  swooped  again,  while  the  Bat 
skimmed  round  his  head,  flirted  in  his  face,  de- 
rided him  with  tiny  squeaks,  and  flouted  the  fell 
destroyer,  teasing  and  luring  him  for  a  while,  then 
left  him  far  away  as  the  Sea-gull  leaves  a  ship  when 
it  interests  him  no  longer. 

There  was  no  deep  emotion  in  the  part  the  big 
Bat  played,  there  was  no  conscious  sex  instinct, 
nothing  but  the  feeling  of  siding  with  his  own  kind 
against  a  foe,  but  he  remembered  the  soft  velvet 
fur  of  Silver-brown  as  he  flew,  and  still  remembered 
it  a  little  when  he  hung  himself  up  for  his  day 
sleep  in  the  hollow  he  felt  was  home. 

THE  LOVE  FIRE 

The  Red  Moon  rose  on  Saranac,  and  with  it 
many  a  growing  impulse  rose  to  culmination. 
Atalapha  was  in  his  glorious  prime;  the  red  blood 

189 


^ 


Atalapha,  a  "Winged  Brownie 

coursing  through  his  veins  was  tingling  in  its  red- 
ness. His  limbs,  his  wings  —  those  magic  wings 
that  sightless  yet  could  see  —  were  vibrant  with  his 
life  at  its  floodtide  rush.  His  powers  were  in  their 
flush.  His  coat  responded,  and  the  deep  rich 
yellow  brown  that  turned  pale  golden  on  his  throat, 
and  deepened  into  red  on  his  shining  shoulders, 
was  glossed  on  his  back  with  a  purple  sheen,  while 
over  all  the  color  play  was  showered  the  silver 
of  his  frosting;  like  nightly  stars  on  a  shallow 
summer  sea  where  the  yellow  tints  of  weeds  gleamed 
through,  it  shone;  and  massing  on  his  upper  arm 
formed  there  a  band  of  white  that  spanned  his 
shoulders,  sweeping  down  across  his  throat  like  a 
tore  on  the  neck  of  some  royal  rover  of  the  horde 
that  harried  Rome,  the  badge  of  his  native  excel- 
lence, the  proof  of  his  self  -won  fame. 

Rich  indeed  was  his  vestment  now,  but  his  con- 
scious pride  was  the  great  long-fingered  pulsatory 
wings,  reaching  out  to  grasp  huge  handfuls  of  the 
blue-green  night,  reaching,  bounding,  throbbing, 
as  they  answered  to  the  bidding  of  the  lusty  heart 
within.  Whether  as  a  bending  bow  to  hurl  him- 
self, its  arrow,  up  toward  the  silent  stars,  or  to 
sense  like  fine  antennae  every  form  or  barricade,  or 
change  of  heat  or  cold,  or  puff  of  air,  yes,  even  hill 
or  river  far  below,  that  crossed  or  neared  his  unseen 
190 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

path.  And  the  golden  throat  gave  forth  in  silver 
notes  a  song  of  joy.  Sang  out  Atalapha,  as  every 
sentient  being  sings  when  life  and  power  and  the 
joy  of  life  have  filled  his  cup  brimful. 

And  he  whirled  and  wheeled,  and  shrilled  his 
wildest  strain,  as  though  his  joy  were  rounded  out 
complete. 

How  well  he  knew  it  lacked! 

Deep  in  his  heart  was  a  craving,  a  longing  that 
he  scarcely  understood.  His  life,  so  full,  so  strong, 
was  only  half  a  life;  and  he  raced  in  wanton  speed, 
or  plunged  like  a  meteor  to  skim  past  sudden  death 
for  the  very  pride  and  glory  of  his  power.  And 
skirling  he  spieled  the  song  that  he  may  have  used 
as  a  war  song,  but  it  had  no  hate  in  its  vibrant 
notes;  it  was  the  outbursting  now  of  a  growing, 
starkening,  urging,  all-dominating  wish  for  some 
one  else.  And  he  wheeled  in  ever-larger  lightning 
curves;  careering  he  met  his  summer  mates,  all 
racing  like  himself,  all  filled  with  the  fires  of  youth 
and  health,  burning  and  lusty  life,  that  had  reached 
a  culmination — all  tingling  as  with  some  pungent, 
in-breathed  essence,  racing,  strenuous,  eager, 
hungry,  hankering,  craving  for  something  that 
was  not  yet  in  their  lives,  seeking  companionship, 
and  yet  when  they  met  each  other  they  wheeled 
apart,  each  by  the  other  shunned,  and  circling, 
191 


Atalapha,  a  Winded  Brownie 

yet  voyaging  in  the  upper  air  they  went,  drifting, 
sailing  alone,  though  in  a  flock,  away  to  the  far 
southwest. 

Fervent  in  the  fervent  throng  and  lightning 
swift  among  the  flashing  speeders  was  Atalapha 
in  his  new  ecstatic  mood.  He  had  perhaps  no 
clear  thought  of  his  need  and  void,  but  a  picture 
came  again  and  again  in  his  mind,  the  form  of  a 
companion,  not  a  lusty  brother  of  the  bachelor 
crew,  but  the  soft,  slight  form  of  Silver-brown. 
And  as  his  feelings  burned,  the  impulse  grew  and 
his  fleet  wings  bore  him  like  a  glancing  star,  away 
and  away  to  the  valley  where  ten  nights  back  he 
had  seen  her  drop  as  the  Death  Hawk  stooped  to 
seize  her. 

Star!  red  star  of  the  Red  Moon  nights! 

Star  blazing  in  the  sky,  as  a  ruddy  firefly  glowing 
in  the  grass,  as  a  lamp  in  a  beacon  burning! 

Oh!  be  the  wanderer's  star  to-night  and  guide  him 
to  the  balm-  wine  tree! 

Oh!  shine  where  the  cooling  draft  awaits  the 
levered  lips  and  burning! 

The  strong  wings  lashed  on  the  ambient  wind, 
and  that  beautiful  body  went  bounding,  swinging, 
bounding.  High,  holding  his  swift  line,  he  swept 
o'er  Saranac  and  on.  Low,  glancing  like  an  arrow 
newly  sped,  he  traversed  Pitchoff's  many-shouldered 
192 


' 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

peak.  Like  a  falling  star  he  dropped  to  Placid's 
broad  blue  breast  and  made  across  the  waving 
forest  heads. 

For  where?  Did  he  know?  For  the  upper 
valley  of  the  river,  for  the  place  of  the  Unknown 
Death,  for  the  woods,  for  the  very  tree  in  whose 
bosky  top  he  had  had  the  last,  the  fleeting  glimpse 
of  the  soft  little  Silver-brown. 

There  is  no  hunger  for  which  there  is  no  food. 
There  is  no  food  that  will  not  come  for  the  hunger 
that  seeks  and  seeks,  and  will  not  cease  from  seek- 
ing. Speeding  in  airy  wheels  in  the  early  night, 
careering  around  the  hemlock  top  as  though  it  held, 
and  had  held  these  many  days,  the  magnet  that 
he  had  never  realized  till  now — and  many  of  his 
brethren  passing  near  wove  mystic  traceries  in 
the  air;  he  sensed  them  all  about,  but  heeded  none 
— a  compass  for  a  compass  has  no  message — when 
a  subtle  influence  turned  him  far  away,  another 
power,  not  eyes  nor  tactile  wings;  and  he  wheeled 
with  eager  rush  as  one  who  sees  afar  a  signal  long 
awaited. 

There!  Yes!  A  newcomer  of  his  race,  of  dif- 
ferent form  perhaps,  and  size  and  coat,  but  these 
were  things  he  had  no  mind  to  see.  This  had  a 
different  presence,  an  overmastering  lure,  a  speech- 
less bidding  not  to  be  resisted,  a  sparkling  of  the 

193 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

distant  spring  to  the  sandworn  traveller  parched, 
athirst. 

Now  sped  he  like  a  pirate  of  the  air.  Now  fled 
she  like  a  flying  yacht  gold-laden,  away,  away,  and 
the  warm  wind  whistled,  left  behind.  But  the  pirate 
surely  wins  when  the  prize  is  not  averse  to  being 
taken.  Not  many  a  span  of  the  winding  stream, 
not  many  a  wing-beat  of  that  flight  ere  Atalapha 
was  skimming  side  by  side  with  a  glorified  Silver- 
brown.  How  rich  and  warm  was  that  coat.  How 
gentle,  alluring  the  form  and  the  exquisite  presence 
that  told  without  sounds  of  a  spirit  that  also  had 
hungered. 

11  He-ooo,  he-ooo,  he-ooo!"  loud  sang  Atalapha 
in  ecstasy  of  the  love  dream  that  came  true. 

"He-ooo,  he-ooo,  he-ooo  1 "  and  she  sailed  by  his  side. 
And  as  they  sped  the  touch  of  lips  or  ears  or  wing- 
tips  was  their  lover  greeting,  or  tilting  each  away, 
as  side  by  side  they  flew,  their  warm  soft  breasts 
would  meet  and  the  beating  hearts  together  beat  in 
time.  The  seeing  wings  supplied  their  comprehen- 
sion in  a  hundred  thrills,  magnetic,  electric,  over- 
whelming. So  they  sailed  in  the  blue  on  their  bridal 
flight;  so  the  hunger-mad  joined  in  a  feast  of  delight; 
so  the  fever-burnt  drank  at  the  crystal  spring,  for 
the  moon  that  was  full  was  the  Red  Love  Moon, 
and  it  blazed  on  the  brawling  river. 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

THE   RACE   WITH   THE   SWALLOWS 

The  fiercer  the  fire  the  faster  it  fades;  and  when 
seven  suns  had  sunk  on  Marcy  Vale,  Atalapha  and 
his  bride,  and  the  merry  mated  host  that  came  that 
night  from  Saranac,  were  roaming  in  the  higher 
winds  with  calmer  flights  and  moods.  The  coursers 
of  the  night  went  often  now  alone.  The  ardor  of 
the  honeymoon  was  over,  and  strange  to  tell  with 
the  dulling  of  that  fire  the  colors  of  their  coats 
dulled,  too. 

August  the  Red  Moon  passed,  and  according  to 
their  custom  the  Bats  prepared  to  go,  like  ancient 
pilgrims,  in  two  great  flights,  the  males  in  one,  their 
consorts  in  a  different  later  company. 

Atalapha  had  seen  no  more  of  Silver-brown  dur- 
ing the  last  week  than  he  had  of  many  others,  and 
the  law  was  easily  obeyed.  She  was  living  with  her 
kind,  and  he  with  his. 

Then  came  again  the  stirring  times  when  the 
nights  turned  cold.  At  last  there  was  a  nip  of  frost, 
and  a  great  unrest  ran  through  the  Bat  community. 
Next  morning,  after  feed  time,  Atalapha  made  not 
for  his  lurking  place,  but  wheeled  toward  the  open, 
and  after  him  the  flittering  host  sailing  and  circling 
high.  They  were  not  dashing  in  feverish  excite- 
ment as  a  month  before,  but  wheeling  upward  as 


Atalapha,  a  "Winged  Brownie 

with  a  common  purpose,  so  when  the  great  spiral 
flock  had  soared  so  high  that  it  was  like  smoke 
reflected  in  the  river  far  below,  its  leader  wheeled 
in  a  final  wheel  on  the  air  current  that  suited  him 
best,  all  followed,  and  their  journey  was  begun.  A 
troop  of  Swallows  came  fleet-winged  from  the  north, 
and  so  the  two  swarms  went  together. 

It  seems  impossible  for  two  swift  creatures  not 
actually  companions  or  mates  to  travel  the  same 
road  long  without  a  race. 

At  first  each  Bat  that  happened  to  be  near  a 
Swallow  took  care  not  to  be  left  behind.  But  the 
interest  grew,  and  not  half  the  first  little  valley 
was  crossed  before  the  rivalry  between  chance 
Swallow  and  chance  Bat  had  grown  till  the  whole 
Swallow  army  was  racing  the  whole  army  of  Bats, 
and  Atalapha  was  matched  with  a  splendid  fellow 
in  steely  blue,  whose  wings  went  whistling  in  the 
wind. 

Away  they  sped,  keeping  the  same  air  level  and 
straggling  out  as  the  different  individuals  showed 
their  different  powers.  Who  that  knows  the  merry, 
glancing  Swallow  can  doubt  that  it  must  win? 
Who  that  has  watched  the  Northern  Bat  could 
ever  have  a  question?  Yet  the  race  was  nearly 
even.  There  were  Bats  that  could  not  hold  their 
own  with  certain  Swallows,  and  there  were  Swal- 
196 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

lows  that  strained  very  hard  indeed  to  keep  near 
the  Bats.  Both  sped  away  at  their  swiftest  pace. 
A  second  valley  was  crossed  and  then  a  low  range  of 
hills.  Both  armies  now  were  strung  out  at  full 
length,  and  yet  seemed  nearly  matched.  But  there 
was  one  trick  that  the  Swallows  could  not  keep 
from  doing,  that  was  curveting  in  the  air.  The 
habit  of  zigzag  flight  was  part  of  their  nature.  The 
Bats  often  do  it,  too,  but  now,  with  speed  as  their 
aim,  they  laid  aside  all  playful  pranks  of  flight,  and, 
level-necked  like  a  lot  of  Wild  Geese,  flapping  stead- 
ily at  a  regular  beat,  beat,  beat,  dropping  or  rising 
as  their  sensitive  feelings  showed  was  wise  when  the 
air  current  changed,  their  wings  went  beat,  beat, 
beat.  Another  valley  crossed,  Atalapha  made 
better  choice  of  the  air  levels,  and  his  rival  dropped 
behind.  His  kinsmen  followed.  The  Swallows 
began  to  lose  a  little,  then,  losing  ground,  lost 
heart;  and  before  another  river  had  been  passed 
the  first  of  the  Swallows  had  dropped  behind  the 
last  of  the  Bats,  and  silken  wings  had  beaten 
whistling  plumes. 

LOST  ON  THE  WATER 

Most  migrants  seek  the  sea  if  it  be  anywhere  near 
their  course,  no  doubt  because  of  the  great  guide 
line  of  its  margin.    Down  the  Connecticut  Valley 
197 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

they  had  sped,  and  were  not  far  from  the  sounding 
shore  when  the  leader  of  the  Bats  led  his  following 
into  hanging  quarters  for  the  day. 

They  were  a  tired  lot,  especially  the  youngsters, 
whose  first  long  flight  it  was,  and  when  the  evening 
meal  hour  came  most  of  them  preferred  to  go  on 
sleeping.  The  night  was  waning,  the  morning  was 
coming,  when  the  leader  roused  the  host,  and  all 
went  out  to  hunt.  The  great  game  season  was 
over  and  food  was  so  scarce  that  the  sun  arose  while 
many  yet  were  hunting,  and  now  it  was  time  to  be 
moving  on  the  long  south  march.  Turning  the  gold 
of  his  breast  to  the  southward,  Atalapha  with  his 
friends  in  long  array  behind  went  swinging  easily 
down  the  valley  to  the  sea,  when  a  change  of  wind 
was  felt,  a  chilly  blast  from  the  north  arose.  The 
leader  soared  at  once  to  seek  a  pleasanter  level,  but 
found  it  worse,  then  sank  so  far  that  at  last  they 
were  tormented  with  eddies  answering  to  the  con- 
tour of  the  hills,  and  flitting  low,  were  surprised 
with  a  flurry  of  snow  that  sent  them  skurrying  into 
sheltered  places,  where  they  hung  and  shivered, 
and  so  they  passed  the  rest  of  that  day  and  the 
night,  after  a  slowly  gathered  meal. 

The  dawn  time  came,  and  the  Bats  were  all  astir, 
for  the  spirit  of  unrest  was  on  them.  The  snow  was 
gone  and  the  weather  mild,  so  they  held  their  course 
198 


Atalapha,  a  Winded  Btownte 

till  the  crawling  sea  was  far  below  them,  and  its 
foaming  sandy  shore  was  the  line  that  guided  their 
army  now. 

The  day  had  opened  fair,  but  they  had  not  sailed 
an  hour  before  the  sky  was  darkened,  a  noisy  wind 
was  blowing  in  changing  ways,  and  an  overstream 
of  air  came  down  that  was  stinging,  numbing  cold. 

Wise  Bats  know  that  the  upper  air  may  be  warm 
when  the  world  is  cold,  and  Atalapha  soaring  led 
in  a  long,  strong,  upward  slope,  and  on  a  warmer 
plane  he  sped  away.  But  in  a  little  while  the  world 
below  was  hidden  in  a  flying  spume  of  fog  that  was 
driven  with  whiteness,  and  in  that  veil  the  Bats 
again  were  lost:  only  the  few  strong  flyers  near  him 
could  be  seen;  but  Atalapha  sped  on.  He  saw  no 
landmarks,  but  he  had  a  winged  thing's  compass 
sense.  So  he  flew  high  above  the  veiled  world, 
never  halting  or  fearing — but  on. 

He  would  surely  have  kept  the  line  and  outflown 
the  storm  but  for  a  strange  mischance  that  brought 
him  face  to  face  with  an  ancient  foe. 

The  mizzling  fog  and  driving  sleet  had  ceased  for 
a  little  so  that  he  could  see  some  distance  around. 
A  few  of  his  daily  comrades  were  there,  but  among 
them  flying  also  was  the  huge  brown  form  of  a  Hawk. 
He  was  sailing  and  flapping  by  turns,  and  easily 
wheeling  southward  rather  than  moving  by  direct 
199 


AUlapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

flight  But  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  Bat  so  near  he 
turned  his  cruel  head  with  those  hungry  yellow  eyes 
and  made  for  him,  with  the  certainty  that  here  was 
an  easy  meal. 

Atalapha  was  a  little  cold  but  otherwise  fresh, 
and  he  eluded  the  onset  with  scarcely  an  effort, 
but  the  Hawk,  too,  was  fresh.  He  swooped  upward 
again  and  again,  so  the  flight  became  a  succession 
of  zigzags.  Then  the  fog  and  snow  dosed  in.  The 
Hawk  made  another  pounce  which  Atalapha  easily 
dodged  with  a  swift  upwheel  that  took  Him  far  from 
danger  of  those  daws,  but  also,  as  it  happened,  into 
a  thicker,  chillier  doud  than  ever,  and  so  far  as  he 
could  see,  he  was  alone  in  space.  His  other  sense, 
the  vision  of  his  wings,  was  dulled  by  the  cold;  it 
told  him  that  the  enemy  was  not  so  far  away,  but 
that  was  all;  and  he  sped  in  the  white  darkness  of 
the  mist,  as  fast  as  he  could,  away  from  the  boding 
menace. 

Still  he  went  at  his  steady  pace.  He  saw  no  more 
of  the  Hawk,  but  the  fog  and  the  snow  grew  heavier; 
then  the  wind  arose  and  he  followed,  for  he  could 
not  face  it,  and  flew  on  and  on.  The  day  should 
have  come  in  brightness,  but  the  douds  were  heavy 
above,  so  he  sailed  and  sailed.  Then  when  sure  he 
was  safe  and  would  descend  to  rest,  he  lowered 
through  the  snow-laden  wind  to  find  that  there  was 
200 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

nothing  below  but  the  sea,  heaving,  expanding,  ap- 
palling, so  he  rose  and  flew  again  for  a  long,  long 
time,  then  he  descended  to  find — the  awful  sea. 
He  arose  once  more,  flew  on  and  on  and  on,  and  still 
on,  but  the  sea  was  below  him.  Then  the  snow- 
storm ceased,  the  sky  cleared  off  as  the  sun  began 
to  go  down,  and  the  Bat's  little  eyes  could  glance 
round  and  round  to  see  nothing  but  heaving  sea, 
no  sight  of  tree  or  land  or  any  other  Bats,  nothing 
but  the  dark,  hungry  waters.  He  flew,  not  knowing 
whither  or  why,  the  only  guide  being  the  wind  now 
falling;  he  was  no  longer  numbed  with  cold,  but  he 
was  wearied  to  the  very  bone. 

Yet  the  only  choice  was  go  on  or  go  down,  so  he 
flapped  and  sailed  as  he  had  since  the  dawn,  and 
when  the  favoring  breeze  died  away  he  soared  a 
little,  hoping  to  find  another  helpful  wind,  and 
sailed  with  his  worn,  weary  wings — sailed  as  the 
hunger  pang  weakened  him — sailed,  not  the  least 
knowing  whither.  Had  he  had  the  mind  of  an- 
other being,  that  thought  might  have  struck  him 
down,  but  his  animal  frame  was  strong,  his  vision  of 
danger  was  small,  and  he  sailed  ever  onward  and  on. 

THE  REMORSELESS  SEA 

An  hour,  and  another  hour,  slowly  passed;  the 
sun  had  gone,  the  soft  light  that  he  loved  was  com- 

201 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

ing  down,  but  his  spirit  was  failing.  He  did  not 
know  where  he  was  going,  or  whether  he  should 
turn  and  follow  the  sun  till  he  dropped.  As  soon  as 
the  doubt  came  on  him,  he  felt  his  strength  go.  He 
kept  on,  but  it  was  a  feeble  flutter,  with  little  direc- 
tion. Surely  now  the  sea  would  swallow  him  up,  as 
it  doubtless  had  done  many  of  his  fellows.  His 
courage  never  really  failed  till  now.  His  flight  was 
drifting  downward,  when  far  behind  he  heard  a 
strange  loud  cry,  a  sound  of  many  voices,  and  a 
backward  glance  showed  skimming  low  over  the 
water  a  far-flung  string  of  long- winged  birds,  smaller 
than  Hawks,  black  and  white,  whistling  as  they 
flew.  The  instinct  to  save  himself  caused  him  to 
rise  higher,  but  his  flight  was  slow  now,  and  the 
broad-fronted  horde  of  ocean  roamers  came  up  and 
past  him  with  a  whirring  and  a  whistling,  to  fade 
in  the  gloom  to  the  south. 

They  had  paid  no  heed  to  him,  yet  when  they 
were  gone  they  helped  him.  He  did  not  know  that 
these  were  Golden  Plovers  migrating.  He  did  not 
know  that  they  were  headed  for  the  ocean  islands 
where  winter  never  comes,  but  the  force  of  their 
example  was  not  lost.  Example  is  the  great  teacher 
of  all  wild  things,  and  spurred  by  the  clamorous 
band,  Atalapha  took  fresh  heart  and,  following  their 
very  course,  flapped  on,  wearily,  hungrily,  slowly 
202 


•v- 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie  1 

for  him,  but  on.  The  night  wind  followed  the  sun 
for  a  time,  but  Atalapha  put  forth  a  little  of  his 
feeble  strength  to  rise  till  he  found  an  upper  breeze 
that  was  warm  and  would  help  him. 

All  day  from  earliest  dawn  he  had  flown,  in  the 
early  part  at  least  in  peril  of  his  life,  not  a  bite  had 
he  eaten,  but  on  and  on  he  kept,  not  the  swift, 
swooping  flight  of  the  arrowy  Bat  as  he  comes  when 
the  shadows  fall  on  Saranac,  but  slowly  flapping  and 
low,  Like  a  Heron  flying  with  heavy,  flagging  flight, 
without  curvet,  but  headed  with  steady  purpose, 
swerving  not,  and  on. 

Six  hundred  miles  had  he  flown;  his  little  breast 
was  heaving,  the  rich  dark  fur  was  matted  with  the 
spray,  the  salt  on  his  lips  was  burning,  but  on  and 
on  he  flew. 

Flap,  flap,  flap.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
moan  of  the  sea,  nor  sight  for  his  eyes  to  rest  on, 
nor  hint  that  his  magic  wings  could  sense  a  place  of 
refuge;  but  on  and  feebly  on. 

Flap — flap — flap — there  was  naught  but  the 
pitiless  ocean,  and  the  brave  little  heart  was  sink- 
ing, and  yet  on — on. 

Flap— flap.  His  eyes  were  long  dimmed.  His 
wings  were  forgetting  their  captain,  but  on — on — 
in  the  wake  of  the  Plovers,  still  on. 

The  All-mother,  inexorable,  remorseless  always, 
203 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

sends,  at  least  sometimes,  a  numb  sleep  to  dull 
the  last  pang,  and  the  wing- wearied  flyer  was  for- 
getting— but  on  in  a  slow,  sad  rhythm  that  was 
surely  near  the  end,  when  away  out  ahead  in  the 
darkness  came  a  volume  of  sound,  a  whistling, 
the  same  as  had  passed  him. 

Like  a  thrill  it  ran  through  his  frame,  like  food 
and  drink  it  entered  his  body,  and  he  bounded 
away  at  a  better  pace.  He  put  forth  his  feeble 
strength  and  flew  and  flew.  Then  the  clamor  grew 
loud.  A  great  shore  appeared,  and  all  along  the 
strand  were  the  Plovers  running  and  whistling. 
Oh!  haven!  oh,  heaven  at  last!  Oh!  rest.  And 
he  sailed  beyond  the  sand,  there  flung  outspread, 
shivered  a  little,  and  lay  still. 

The  remorseless  All-mother,  the  kindly  All- 
mother,  that  loves  ever  best  her  strong  children, 
came  and  stood  over  him.  She  closed  his  eyes  in 
a  deathlike  sleep,  she  flirted  the  sand  sedge  over 
him,  that  no  shore-mew  nor  evil  creature  of  the 
sea  might  do  him  harm.  So  he  slept;  and  the 
warm  wind  sang. 


THE  BROWNIES  OF  THE  BLOOD  ROYAL 

The  sandflies  fluttered  over  him  and  the  Plovers 
whistled  along  the  shore  as  he  lay,  when  the  sun 
204 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

arose,  but  the  All-mother  was  kind,  had  blown  the 
grass  about  him;  it  hid  him  from  the  hungry  Gull 
and  from  the  sun's  noon  rays.  The  little  tide  of 
mid-ocean  rose  on  the  beach  but  did  not  reach  him 
in  his  deathlike  sleep.  The  second  tide  had  risen 
and  gone,  and  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  dark  western 
waters  before  he  stirred.  He  shivered  all  over, 
then  slowly  revived;  the  captain  awoke,  took  anew 
the  command  of  the  ship — Atalapha  was  himself 
once  more.  He  was  conscious  but  weak,  and  burnt 
with  a  fervent  thirst. 

His  wings  were  strong  but  bone-tired  and  stiff. 
Spreading  them  out,  he  rose  with  an  effort.  The 
water  was  there.  He  sailed  over  it  and  dipped  his 
lips  only  to  sputter  it  out.  Why  had  he  forgotten? 
Had  not  he  learnt  that  lesson? 

With  parched  and  burning  tongue  he  sailed  in- 
land. A  broad,  rocky  pool  was  dragging  down  a 
fragment  of  the  bright  sky  to  contrast  it  with 
the  dull  ground.  He  knew  this  was  right.  He 
sailed  and  dipped.  Oh,  joy!  Sweet,  sweet  water! 
Oh,  blessed  balm  and  comfort!  Sweet  and  cool 
with  recent  rain !  He  drank  till  the  salt  was  washed 
from  his  burning  lips.  He  drank  till  the  fever 
fled,  till  his  body's  pores  were  filled,  till  his  wings 
were  cool  and  moist,  and  now  his  brain  was  clear, 
and  with  strength  renewed,  he  swept  through  the 
205 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

air,  and  about  that  pool  found  a  plenteous  feast- 
found  food  in  a  glad  abundance. 


Who  would  follow  his  unheroic  winter  life  in 
those  isles  of  eternal  summer?  Or  who  will  doubt 
the  spring  unrest  that  surely  comes,  though  there 
be  no  vernalization  of  the  hills?  Or  the  craving 
for  home  and  at  last  the  bold  dash  on  a  favoring 
wind  over  ocean's  broad,  pitiless  expanse,  with  the 
clamoring  birds,  and  of  his  landing,  not  broken, 
but  worn,  in  the  pines  of  a  sandy  coast,  and  the 
northwest  flight  on  the  southeast  wind,  with  his 
kin  once  more,  till  again  ere  the  change  of  the  moon 
he  was  back  on  the  reaches  of  Saranac,  chasing  the 
fat  noctuas,  scooping  the  green  darapsas,  or  tear- 
ing the  orange  tiger-moths  that  one  time  looked 
so  big  and  strong  to  him? 

You  may  see  him  if  you  will,  along  the  pond 
above  Haskins'  mill;  you  will  know  him  by  his 
size  and  marvellous  flight.  You  may  see  him,  too, 
if  you  spend  a  winter  in  the  Bermudas,  for  he  loves 
to  take  that  vast  heroic  flight  just  as  an  Eagle 
glories  in  the  highest  blue  for  the  joy  of  being 
alone  on  the  noblest  plane  of  exploit. 

Yet  another  thing  you  should  know:  If  you  seek 
the  cool  green  forest  aisles  made  by  the  Beaver 
206 


Atalapha,  a  Winged  Brownie 

pond  east  of  Marcy  you  will  marvel  when  the 
Winged  Brownies  come.  They  are  there  in  merry 
hordes;  the  least  come  first,  and  quite  late  in  the 
evening,  if  you  watch,  you  will  see  a  long-winged 
Bat  in  velvet  fur  of  silver-brown  with  a  silver  bar 
on  either  shoulder.  Still  later  in  the  season,  if 
you  have  wonderful  eyes,  you  may  see  flying  with 
her  two  others  of  the  royal  blood,  with  orange  fur 
and  silver  on  the  shoulders,  only  in  their  case  the 
silver  is  complete  and  goes  right  across,  exactly 
as  it  does  on  Atalapha. 


VI 

The  Wild  Geese 
of   Wyndygoul 


VI 
The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygoul 

THE  BUGLING  ON  THE  LAKE 


HO  that  knows 
the  Wild  North- 
land of  Canada 


that  blue  and 
green  wilderness  without 
hearing  in  his  heart  the  trumpet  "honk"  of  the  Wild 
Geese?  Who  that  has  ever  known  it  there  can  fail 
to  get  again,  each  time  he  hears,  the  thrill  it  gave 
when  first  for  him  it  sounded  on  the  blue  lake  in 
the  frame  of  green?  Older  than  ourselves  is  the 
thrill  of  the  gander-clang.  For  without  a  doubt  that 
trumpet  note  in  springtime  was  the  inspiring  notice 
to  our  far-back  forebears  in  the  days  that  were  that 
the  winter  famine  was  at  end — the  Wild  Geese  come, 
the  snow  will  melt,  and  the  game  again  be  back 
on  the  browning  hills.  The  ice-hell  of  the  winter 
211 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygotd 

time  is  gone;  the  warm  bright  heaven  of  the  green 
and  perfect  land  is  here.  This  is  the  tidings  it 
tells,  and  when  I  hear  the  honker-clang  from  the 
flying  wedge  in  the  sky,  that  is  the  message  it 
brings  me  with  a  sudden  mist  in  the  eyes  and  a 
choking  in  the  throat,  so  I  turn  away,  if  another 
be  there,  unless  that  other  chance  to  be  one  like 
myself,  a  primitive,  a  "hark  back"  who,  too,  re- 
members and  who  understands. 

So  when  I  built  my  home  in  the  woods  and 
glorified    a    marshy    swamp    into   a    deep    blue 
brimming  lake,  with  Muskrats  in  the  water  and 
v-  ^  ^inter  twining  boughs  above,   my   memory,   older 

~**    than    my    brain,    harked    hungry   for   a    sound 
~  ^.""*"       that  should   have   been.    I  knew  not  what;    I 

>*.  tried   to  find   by   subtle  searching,   but  it  was 

J*/*"  chance  in  a  place  far  off  that  gave  the  clue.    I 

""'*""'  want  to  hear  the  honkers  call,  I  long  for  the  clang 

of  the  flying  wedge,  the  trumpet  note  of  the  long- 
gone  days. 

So  I  brought  a  pair  of  the  Blacknecks  from  an- 
other lake,  pinioned  to  curb  the  wild  roving  that 
the  seasons  bring,  and  they  nested  on  a  little 
island,  not  hidden,  but  open  to  the  world  about. 
There  in  that  exquisite  bed  of  soft  gray  down  were 
laid  the  six  great  ivory  eggs.  On  them  the  patient 
mother  sat  four  weeks  unceasingly,  except  each 

212 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygotil 

afternoon  she  left  them  half  an  hour.  And  round 
and  round  that  island,  night  and  day,  the  gander 
floated,  cruised,  and  tacked  about,  like  a  war  ship 
on  patrol.  Never  once  did  the  gander  cover  the 
eggs,  never  once  did  the  mother  mount  on  guard. 
I  tried  to  land  and  learn  about  the  nest  one  day. 
The  brooding  goose  it  was  that  gave  the  danger  call. 
A  short  quack,  a  long,  sharp  hiss,  and  before  my  boat 
could  touch  the  shore  the  gander  splashed  between 
and  faced  me.  Only  over  his  dead  body  might 
my  foot  defile  their  isle — so  he  was  left  in  peace. 

The  young  ones  came  at  length.  The  six  shells 
broke  and  the  six  sweet  golden  downlings  "peeped" 
inspiringly.  Next  day  they  quit  the  nest  in  orderly 
array.  The  mother  first,  the  downlings  closely 
bunched  behind,  and  last  the  warrior  sire.  And 
this  order  they  always  kept,  then  and  all  other 
times  that  I  have  knowledge  of.  It  gave  me  food 
for  thought.  The  mother  always  leads,  the  father, 
born  a  fighter,  follows — yes,  obeys.  And  what  a 
valiant  guard  he  was;  the  Snapping  Turtle,  the 
Henhawk,  the  Blacksnake,  the  Coon,  and  the  vagrant 
dog  might  take  their  toll  of  duckling  brood  or 
chicken  yard,  but  there  is  no  thing  alive  the  gander 
will  not  face  for  his  little  ones,  and  there  are  few 
things  near  his  bulk  can  face  him. 

So  the  flock  grew  big  and  strong.    Before  three 

213 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygotd 

months  they  were  big  almost  as  the  old  ones,  and 
fairly  fledged;  at  four  their  wings  were  grown; 
their  voices  still  were  small  and  thin,  they  had  not 
got  the  trumpet  note,  but  seemed  the  mother's 
counterparts  in  all  things  else.  Then  they  began 
to  feel  their  wings,  and  take  short  flights  across 
the  lake.  As  their  wings  grew  strong  their  voices 
deepened,  till  the  trumpet  note  was  theirs,  and  the 
thing  I  had  dreamed  of  came  about:  a  wild  goose 
band  that  flew  and  bugled  in  the  air,  and  yet  came 
back  to  their  home  water  that  was  also  mine. 
Stronger  they  grew,  and  long  and  high  their  flights. 
Then  came  the  moon  of  falling  leaves,  and  with 
its  waning  flocks  of  small  birds  flew,  and  in  the 
higher  sky  the  old  loud  clang  was  heard.  Down 
from  the  north  they  came,  the  arrow-heads  of 
geese.  All  kinsmen  these,  and  that  ahead  without 
a  doubt  the  mother  of  the  rest. 

THE  FIFTH  COMMANDMENT 

The  Wild  Geese  on  my  lake  turned  up  their 
eyes  and  answered  back,  and  lined  up  on  the  lake. 
Their  mother  led  the  way  and  they  whispered  all 
along  the  line.  Their  mother  gave  the  word, 
swimming  fast  and  faster,  then  quacked,  then 
called,  and  then  their  voices  rose  to  give  the 
"honk";  the  broad  wings  spread  a  little,  while  they 
214 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygool 

spattered  on  the  glassy  lake,  then  rose  to  the 
measured  "Honk,  honk";  soaring  away  in  a  flock, 
they  drifted  into  line,  to  join  those  other  honkers 
in  the  Southern  sky. 

"Honk,  honk,  honk!"  they  shouted  as  they  sped. 
"Come  on!  Come  on!"  they  inspired  each  other 
with  the  marching  song;  it  set  their  wings  aquiver. 
The  wild  blood  rushed  still  faster  in  their  wilding 
breasts.  It  was  like  a  glorious  trumpet.  But — 
what!  Mother  is  not  in  the  line.  Still  splashed 
she  on  the  surface  of  the  lake,  and  father,  too — 
and  now  her  strident  trumpet  overbore  their 
clamorous  "On,  on!  Come  on!"  with  a  strong 
"Come  back!  Come  back!"  And  father,  too, 
was  bugling  there.  "Come  back!  Come  back!" 

So  the  downlings  wheeled,  and  circling  high  above 
the  woods  came  sailing,  skirting,  kiting,  splashing 
down  at  the  matriarchal  call. 

"What's  up?  What's  up?  "  they  called  lowly  all 
together,  swimming  nervously.  "Why  don't  we 
go?"  "What  is  it,  mother?" 

And  mother  could  not  tell.  Only  this  she  knew, 
that  when  she  gave  the  bugle  note  for  all  to  fly,  she 
spattered  with  the  rest,  and  flapped,  but  it  seemed 
she  could  not  get  the  needed  send-off.  Somehow 
she  failed  to  get  well  under  way;  the  youngsters 
rose,  but  the  old  ones,  their  strong  leaders,  had 

215 


/ 

' 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygoul 

Strangely  failed.  Such  things  will  come  to  all.  Not 
quite  run  enough  no  doubt.  So  mother  led  them  to 
the  northmost  arm  of  the  lake,  an  open  stretch  of 
water  now,  and  long.  They  here  lined  up  again, 
mother  giving  a  low,  short  double  "  honk  "  ahead,  the 

'rest  aside  and  yet  in  line,  for  the  long  array  was 
angling. 

Then  mother  passed  the  word  "Now,  now,"  and 
nodding  just  a  little  swam  on,  headed  for  the  south, 
the  young  ones  passed  the  word  "Now,  now,"  and 
nodding  swam,  and  father  at  the  rear  gave  his  deep, 
strong,  "Now,  now,"  and  swam.  So  swam  they  all, 
then  spread  their  wings,  and  spattered  with  their 
feet,  as  they  put  on  speed,  and  as  they  went  they 
rose,  and  rising  bugled  louder  till  the  marching  song 
was  ringing  in  full  chorus.  Up,  up  and  away, 
above  the  treetops.  But  again,  for  some  strange 
reason,  mother  was  not  there,  and  father,  too,  was 
left  behind  on  the  pond,  and  once  again  the  bugle 
of  retreat  was  heard,  "Come  back!  Come  back!" 

And  the  brood,  obedient,  wheeled  on  swishing 
wings  to  sail  and  slide  and  settle  on  the  pond,  while 
mother  and  father  both  expressed  in  low,  short 
notes  their  deep  perplexity. 

Again  and  again  this  scene  took  place.  The 
autumn  message  in  the  air,  the  flying  wedges  of 
their  kin,  or  the  impulse  in  themselves  lined  up 
ai6 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygool 

that  flock  on  the  water.  All  the  law  of  ceremony 
was  complied  with,  and  all  went  well  but  the 
climax. 

When  the  Mad  Moon  came  the  mania  was  at 
its  height;  not  once  but  twenty  times  a  day  I  saw 
them  line  up  and  rise,  but  ever  come  back  to  the 
mother's  call,  the  bond  of  love  and  duty  stronger 
than  the  annual  custom  of  the  race.  It  was  a  con- 
flict of  their  laws  indeed,  but  the  strongest  was, 
obey,  made  absolute  by  love. 

After  a  while  the  impulse  died  and  the  flock 
settled  down  to  winter  on  the  pond.  Many  a  long, 
far  flight  they  took,  but  allegiance  to  the  older  folk 
was  strong  and  brought  them  back.  So  the  winter 
passed. 

Again,  when  the  springtime  came,  the  Blacknecks 
flying  north  stirred  up  the  young,  but  in  a  less  de- 
gree. 

That  summer  came  another  brood  of  young. 
The  older  ones  were  warned  away  whenever  near. 
Snapper,  Coon,  and  ranging  cur  were  driven  off, 
and  September  saw  the  young  ones  on  the  lake  with 
their  brothers  of  the  older  brood. 

Then  came  October,  with  the  southward  rushing 

of  the  feathered  kinds.    Again  and  again  that  line 

upon  the  lake  and  the  bugle  sound  to  "fly,"  and  the 

same  old  scene,  though  now  there  were  a  dozen 

317 


k 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygoul 

flyers  who  rose  and  circled  back  when  mother 
sounded  the  "retreat." 

FATHER  OR  MOTHER 

So  through  the  moon  it  went.  The  leaves  were 
fallen  now,  when  a  strange  and  unexpected  thing 
occurred.  Making  unusual  effort  to  meet  this 
most  unusual  case,  good  Mother  Nature  had  pro- 
longed the  feathers  of  the  pinioned  wing  and  held 
back  those  of  the  other  side.  It  was  slowly  done, 
and  the  compensating  balance  not  quite  made  till 
near  October's  end.  Then  on  a  day,  the  hundredth 
time  at  least  that  week,  the  bugle  sang,  and  all 
the  marchers  rose.  Yes  I  mother,  too,  and  bugling 
louder  till  the  chorus  was  complete,  they  soared 
above  the  trees,  and  mother  marshalled  all  her 
brood  in  one  great  arrow  flock,  so  they  sailed  and 
clamoring  sailed  away,  to  be  lost  in  the  southward 
blue — and  all  in  vain  on  the  limpid  lake  behind  the 
gander  trumpeted  in  agony  of  soul,  "Come  back! 
Come  back!"  His  wings  had  failed  him,  and  in 
the  test,  the  young's  allegiance  bound  them  to 
their  mother  and  the  seeking  of  the  southern 
home. 

All  that  winter  on  the  ice  the  gander  sat  alone. 

On  days  a  snow-time  Hawk  or  some  belated  Crow 
would  pass  above,  and  the  ever-watchful  eye  of 
218 


The  Wild  Geese  of  "Wyndygool 

Blackneck  was  turned  a  little  to  take  him  in  and 
then  go  on  unheeding.  Once  or  twice  there  were 
sounds  that  stirred  the  lonely  watcher  to  a  bugle 
call,  but  short  and  soon  suppressed.  It  was  sad  to 
see  him  then,  and  sadder  still  as  we  pondered,  for 
this  we  knew:  his  family  never  would  come  back. 
Tamed,  made  trustful  by  life  where  men  were  kind, 
they  had  gone  to  the  land  of  gunners,  crafty,  piti- 
less and  numberless:  they  would  learn  too  late  the 
perils  of  the  march.  Next,  he  never  would  take 
another  mate,  for  the  Wild  Goose  mates  for  life, 
and  mates  but  once:  the  one  surviving  has  no 
choice — he  finishes  his  journey  alone. 

Poor  old  Blackneck,  his  very  faithfulness  it  was 
that  made  for  endless  loneliness. 

The  bright  days  came  with  melting  snow.  The 
floods  cut  through  the  ice,  and  again  there  were 
buglers  in  the  sky,  and  the  gander  swam  on  the  open 
part  of  the  lake  and  answered  back: 

"Honk,  Honk,  come  back, 
Come  back.  Come  back!" 

but  the  flying  squads  passed  on  with  a  passing 
"honk!" 

Brighter  still  the  days,  and  the  gander  paddled 
with  a  little  exultation  in  the  opening  pond.    How 
219 


The  Wild  Geese  of  Wyndygoul 

we  pitied  him,  self-deluded,  faithful,  doomed  to  a 
long,  lone  life. 

Then  balmy  April  swished  the  woods  with  green; 
the  lake  was  brimming  clear.  Old  Blackneck 
never  ceased  to  cruise  and  watch,  and  answer  back 
such  sounds  as  touched  him.  Oh,  sad  it  seemed 
that  one  so  staunch  should  find  his  burden  in  his 
very  staunchness. 

But  on  a  day,  when  the  peeper  and  the  woodwale 
sang,  there  came  the  great  event!  Old  Blackneck, 
1 1  ever  waiting,  was  astir,  and  more  than  wont.  Who 
"can  tell  us  whence  the  tidings  came?  With  head 
at  gaze  he  cruised  the  open  pond,  and  the  short, 
strong  honk  seemed  sad,  till  some  new  excitation 
raised  the  feathers  on  his  neck.  He  honked  and 
honked  with  a  brassy  ring.  Then  long  before  we 
heard  a  sound,  he  was  bugling  the  marching  song, 
and  as  he  bugled  answering  sounds  came — from 
the  sky — and  grew — then  swooping,  sailing  from  the 
blue,  a  glorious  array  of  thirteen  Wild  Geese,  to 
sail  and  skate  and  settle  on  the  pond;  and  their 
loud  honks  gave  place  to  softer  chatter  as  they 
crowded  round  and  bowed  in  grave  and  loving 
salutation. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  The  young  were  now 
mature  and  they  seemed  strange,  of  course,  but  this 
was  sure  the  missing  mate:  the  mother  had  come 
220 


The  Wild  Geese  of  "Wyndygou! 

back,  and  the  faithful  pair  took  up  their  life — and 
live  it  yet. 

The  autumn  sends  the  ordered  flock  afar,  the 
father  stays  perforce  on  guard,  but  the  bond  that 
binds  them  all  and  takes  them  off  and  brings  them 
back  is  stronger  than  the  fear  of  death.  So  I  have 
learned  to  love  and  venerate  the  honker  Wild  Goose 
whom  Mother  Nature  dowered  with  love  unquench- 
able, constructed  for  her  own  good  ends  a  monu- 
ment of  faithfulness  unchanging,  a  creature  heir 
of  all  the  promises,  so  master  of  the  hostile  world 
around  that  he  lives  and  spreads,  defying  plagues 
and  beasts,  and  I  wonder  if  this  secret  is  not  partly 
that  the  wise  and  patient  mother  leads.  The  long, 
slow  test  of  time  has  given  a  minor  place  to  the 
valiant,  fearless,  fighting  male;  his  place  the  last  of 
all,  his  mode  of  open  fight  the  latest  thing  they 
try.  And  by  a  law  inscrutable,  inexorable,  the 
young  obey  the  matriarch.  Wisdom  their  guide, 
not  force.  Their  days  are  long  on  earth  and  the 
homeland  of  their  race  grows  wide  while  others 
pass  away. 


<^A\S 

fj&^m 

••fl«mivv\il[  Jb         %    -^ 


7    221       = 


VII 

Jinny.     The  Taming 
of   a  Bad  Monkey 


vn 

Jinny*     The  Taming  of  a  Bad 
Monkey 

fA  DANGEROUS  BRUTE 
HE  cage  that  arrived  at  Wardman's 
Menagerie  was  heavily  bound  with 
iron,    and    labelled     "Dangerous"; 
and  when  John  Bonamy,  the  head- 
keeper,  came  up  close  to  peep  in, 
a  hoarse  "Koff,  kojf"  and  a  shock  against   the 
bars  warned  him  that  the  label  was  amply  justified. 
Through  the  grating  his  practised  eye  made  out 
the  dark  visage  of  a  Hanuman,  or  Langur  Monkey, 
the  largest  and  strongest  of  the  kinds  that  come 
from  India,  a  female,  but  standing  over  three  feet 
high,  and   of   bulk   enough   to   be    a  dangerous 
antagonist,  even  to  a  man. 

The  other  keepers  gathered  around,  and  the 

Monkey  worked  herself  up  into  a  storm  of  rage, 

leaping  against  the  bars  whenever  one  of  the  men 

225 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

came  near  enough  to  seem  reachable.  A  scraper 
put  in  to  clean  up  a  little  was  at  once  seized  in  her 
paws,  and  mangled  with  her  teeth.  Keefe  of  the 
monkey  house  felt  called  on  to  take  charge  of  things, 
and  was  peering  in  when  suddenly  a  long,  thin, 
hairy  arm  shot  out  and  snatched  off  the  goggles  he 
was  wearing,  scratching  his  face  at  the  same  time, 
and  putting  him  in  an  awful  temper,  which  the 
merriment  of  the  other  men  did  nothing  to  allay. 

The  head-keeper  had  gone  elsewhere,  after  giving 
instructions,  but  the  noise  and  fuss  brought  him 
back.  His  trained  ear  detected  signs  of  a  familiar 
happening. 

"You've  got  to  remember  they're  human,"  he 

(said,  as  he  sent  all  the  other  keepers  away  and  "sat 
down  beside  that  crazy  Monkey,  to  talk  to  her." 

'Jinny,"  said  he,  giving  her  the  first  she-name 
that  came  handy,  "now,  Jinny,  you  and  I  have  to 
be  friends,  and  we  will  be  as  soon  as  we  get  better 
acquainted."  So  he  kept  on  talking  soothingly, 
not  moving  hand  or  foot,  but  softly  cooing  to  her. 
x  «  i  She  was  very  ugly  at  first,  but,  responding  to  the 

potent  mystery  called  personality,  she  gradually 
calmed  down.  She  ceased  snorting,  and  sat 
crouching  in  the  filth  at  the  back  of  the  box,  glower- 
ing with  restrained  ferocity,  nervously  clasping  one 
skinny  paw  with  the  other.  Bonamy  did  not  mean 
226 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

to  move  for  some  time,  but  the  wind  lifted  his  hat, 
and  as  his  hand  flew  up  to  seize  it,  the  Monkey 
flinched,  blinked,  and  again  broke  out  in  her  sounds 
of  animal  hate. 

"Oh-ho!"  said  he.  "Some  one  has  been  beating 
you."  Now  he  noticed  the  scars  and  certain  slight 
wounds  on  her  body;  he  remembered  that  she  had 
crossed  in  a  sailing  vessel,  and  a  measure  of  all  that 
that  meant  came  to  him.  He  could  imagine  the 
misery  of  that  long,  long  voyage,  the  fearful,  cease- 
less rolling,  the  terrible  seasickness  that  so  many 
monkeys  suffer  from,  the  shameful  cruelty  that  he 
more  than  suspected,  the  bad  food,  and  last  the 
cramped  and  filthy  cage  before  him.  It  was  easy 
to  guess  the  fact:  the  Monkey  had  had  a  horrible 
experience  with  men. 

Bonamy  was  a  born  animal-man;  he  loved  his 
work  among  them.  He  could  handle  and  ulti- 
mately tame  the  most  dangerous;  and  the  more 
difficult  they  seemed,  the  more  he  enjoyed  the  task 
of  winning  them  over.  He  could  have  controlled 
that  Monkey  in  a  day,  but  he  had  other  things  to 
attend  to;  so  merely  instructed  the  monkey-keeper 
to  cover  the  filthy  travelling  coop  with  canvas  and 
carry  it  to  the  hospital.  Inside  the  big  cage  there 
it  was  partly  opened;  and  at  nearly  every  rap  of 
the  hammer  the  Langur  gave  a  savage  snort.  Then 
227 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

from  a  safe  place  outside,  a  keeper  pulled  open  the 
coop  door. 

Some  animals  would  have  dashed  out  at  once, 
but  Jinny  did  not.  She  crouched  back,  glaring 
defiantly  from  under  her  bushy  moving  brows, 
and  seemed  less  inclined  to  come  out  now  than 
when  the  coop  was  tightly  nailed  up. 

Bonamy  left  her  alone.  He  knew  that  it  didn't 
do  to  hurry  her.  You  can't  be  polite  in  a  hurry, 
Lord  Chesterfield  says,  and  you  must  be  polite  to 
win  your  animals.  Moreover,  the  story  that  the 
keeper  read  in  her  wounds  showed  that  the  human 
species  had  a  black  past  to  live  down  in  Jinny's 
estimation. 

She  did  not  leave  the  coop  all  day.  But  that 
evening  after  sundown  Bonamy  peeped  in,  and 
saw  her  in  the  big  cage  washing  her  face  and  hands 
at  the  trough.  Probably  it  was  her  first  chance 
to  be  clean  since  she  had  left  India.  No  doubt 
she  had  drunk  what  she  needed,  and  now  she 
glanced  nervously  about  the  place.  The  food 
supply  she  sniffed  at,  but  did  not  touch;  she  walked 
gingerly  around  the  ironwork,  rubbed  her  finger 
on  some  fresh  tar  just  outside  the  bars,  smelt  her 
finger,  came  back  and  drank  more  water,  caught  a 
flea  oh  her  thigh,  then  resumed  her  inspection 
of  the  bars.  But  she  did  not  touch  the  food.  Like 
228 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

ourselves,  monkeys  do  not  want  to  eat  when  they 
are  all  upset,  they  want  a  drink  of  water  and  quiet. 

Next  day  she  was  perched  up  high,  so  the  keeper 
put  in  his  long  hook  to  draw  out  the  travelling  coop. 
She  sprang  at  him  and  raged  against  the  bars.  He 
tried  to  drive  her  back  by  prodding  with  the  hook, 
but  that  only  made  her  worse. 

Bonamy  had  often  warned  his  men  against  get- 
ting into  a  fight  with  the  animals.  "It  does  no 
good  and  only  spoils  our  show."  So  Keefe  came 
to  him,  gnimbling:  he  "couldn't  do  nothing  with 
that  crazy  Monkey."  As  soon  as  the  two  men 
entered  the  building  Jinny  sprang  toward  them, 
mad  with  rage;  then  Bonamy  knew  that  Keefe 
had  done  more  than  he  had  owned  up  to.  He 
sent  him  away  and,  standing  very  still,  began  to 
talk  to  the  Monkey.  "Now,  Jinny,"  said  he,  "aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself?  Here,  we  want  to  be 
your  good  friends  and  help  you,  and  this  is  how 
you  go  on!"  It  took  fully  ten  minutes  of  that 
gentle  talking  and  that  strong,  kind  personality! 
before  the  Monkey  would  listen  to  reason  and  get 
calm .  She  climbed  up  to  the  high  shelf  and  sat  there 
scowling,  lifting  her  eyebrows  and  watching  this 
big  man,  so  different  from  the  others  she  had  met. 

Realizing  that  the  keeper  had  in  some  way  in- 
curred the  Monkey's  hate,  he  set  about  removing 
229 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

the  dirty  coop,  and  managed  it  after  one  or  two  little 
scenes,  each  one  less  violent  than  the  last,  but  each 
guided  by  his  rule  never  to  scare  any  animal,  never 
to  hurt  them,  and  always  talk  to  them,  very  softly. 
He  did  not  pretend  that  they  knew  what  he  said, 
but  he  felt  they  got  the  idea  that  he  was  friendly, 
and  that  was  enough. 

He  soon  found  that  it  would  not  do  to  let  Keefe 
tend  her  at  all — the  sight  of  that  man  was  enough  to 
set  her  crazy — so  just  because  the  taming  promised 
to  be  a  difficult  job,  Bonamy  undertook  it  himself. 

JI!NNY  FINDS  A  NEW  LIFE 

After  a  week  in  quarantine  Jinny  was  wonder- 
fully improved,  her  fur  was  clean,  her  scratches 
healing,  and  she  seemed  less  in  terror  of  every 
approaching  sound.  Bonamy  now  decided  that 
she  was  fit  for  the  big  show  cage.  There  was  a 
small  trap  cage  on  the  highest  point  of  her  quarters, 
and  watching  till  she  was  in  that  he  pulled  the 
string,  then  transferred  the  little  cage  and  its  in- 
mate to  the  big  outdoor  place  with  over  a  dozen  of 
other  monkeys. 

Of  course  she  raged  at  the  men  during  the  re- 
moval.   But  they  got  her  safely  placed,  and  knew 
she  would  be  quite  a  drawing  card,  for  the  public 
does  love  a  noisy,  fighting  animal. 
330 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

As  soon  as  she  began  to  feel  a  little  at  home  she 
charged  at  the  other  monkeys,  sending  them  helter 
skelter  and  chattering  to  their  highest  perches, 
while  she  walked  up  and  down,  puffing  out  little 
snorts,  raising  and  dropping  .her  bushy  eyebrows, 
and  glaring  defiantly  at  all  the  men  outside. 

The  regular  keeper  came  to  feed  her,  and  as  usual 
went  inside  in  spite  of  her  angry  threats.  As  soon 
as  his  back  was  turned  she  sprang  and  got  him  by 
the  leg.  He  was  badly  bitten  and  she  was  hurt 
before  she  was  driven  off.  But  they  knew  now 
that  it  was  no  bluff,  she  was  a  "bad  Monkey." 

There  seems  to  be  a  fascination  about  a  thorough- 
paced villain,  and  Jinny  was  so  bad  that  she  was 
interesting.  So  yielding  to  an  impulse,  the  big 
man  with  the  strong  hands  and  the  soft  heart  set- 
tled down  to  his  self-appointed  task  of  bringing 
her  "in  line." 

When  he  went  to  feed  her  she  leaped  up  on  a 
high  perch,  snorting,  glaring,  making  faces,  jump- 
ing up  and  down  on  all  fours,  daring  him  to  enter. 
He  was  not  looking  for  trouble,  so  he  did  not  go 
in,  but  he  was  observing  her  keenly.  One  thing 
was  sure:  Jinny  was  no  coward,  and  that  was  a 
great  point;  a  brave  animal  is  far  easier  to  tame 
than  a  coward,  as  every  Zoo-man  knows. 

He  fed  and  watered  the  monkeys  in  that  cage  as 

231 


Jinny.    The  Taming;  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

well  as  he  could  from  the  outside,  to  avoid  stirring 
up  Jinny,  but  she  kept  drifting  around  to  the  edge 
of  the  cage  where  he  happened  to  be,  uttering  a 
low,  menacing  sound,  scratching  her  ribs  with 
her  little  finger,  jumping  up  and  down,  and  oc- 
casionally dashing  at  the  bars.  She  bullied  all 
the  other  monkeys  in  the  cage,  too,  but  the  man 
noticed  that  she  had  not  really  harmed  any  of 
them,  even  when  she  had  good  opportunity. 

One  morning  before  the  public  was  in  he  was 
witness  of  an  unusual  affair:  there  was  one  very 
little  Monkey  that  was  terribly  afraid  of  Jinny, 
and  he  usually  kept  one  eye  on  her.  But  now  he 
was  at  the  front  corner  of  the  bars,  wholly  absorbed 
in  an  attempt  to  steal  a  banana  from  the  next  cage. 
He  was  so  busy  that  for  a  moment  or  two  he  did 
not  look  around.  Meanwhile  Jinny  had  sneaked 
up  softly,  and  now  stood  over  him  with  her  hands 
raised  about  six  inches  above  his  back.  The  little 
chap  worked  away  unconsciously,  barely  reaching 
the  banana  with  one  finger,  which  he  would  bore 
into  the  fruit,  then  bring  back  to  suck  with  gusto. 
At  length,  turning  to  look  behind,  he  found  he 
was  trapped  by  his  enemy. 

In  a  moment  he  was  a  picture  of  abject  terror. 
He  crouched  screaming  in  the  corner  of  the  cage, 
and  Jinny,  to  the  joy  and  surprise  of  the  head- 
232 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

keeper,  stood  quite  still,  raised  her  hands  a  little 
higher,  looked  amused,  he  thought,  and — let  the 
victim  go. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "that  settles  it.  I  know  she 
is  not  a  coward  and  she  is  not  cruel.  She's  not 
a  bad  Monkey  at  all.  She's  been  abused,  but  she 
is  all  right  and  I  am  going  to  handle  her  before  a 
month." 

Then  he  began  his  old  proven  method,  never 
scare  her,  move  gently,  go  as  often  as  he  could, 
and  always  talk  to  her  softly.  At  first  when  he 
came  she  would  rush  threateningly  at  the  bars, 
then,  finding  that  procedure  barren  of  all  inter- 
esting results,  she  gave  it  up  in  less  than  a  week. 
But  she  would  sit  high  on  some  perch  and  glare  at 
him,  scratching  her  ribs,  puffing,  and  working  her 
eyebrows.  He  used  to  joke  her  about  it,  as  he 
phrased  it,  and  in  a  fortnight  could  see  he  was 
winning  the  fight. 

All  this  time  there  had  been  no  thorough  clean- 
ing of  the  cage,  only  a  "long-scraper"  clean-out, 
so  one  morning  he  said:  "I'll  go  in  and  scrub  up." 
The  boss  warned  him  not  to  go.  "That's  a  dan- 
gerous Monk,"  said  he.  "If  she  gets  you  by  the 
neck,  you  are  done." 

But  in  he  went.  Jinny  jumped  up  to  her  high 
perch  and  began  snorting,  jumping,  and  scratch- 

233 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

ing  her  ribs  as  usual.  He  kept  one  eye  on  her  and 
talked  to  her  all  the  time  he  was  in,  and  nothing 
happened,  but  the  boss  warned  him  again.  "You 
look  out  or  she'll  get  you  yet!  I'll  not  be  respon- 
sible if  you  go  in  there  again ! ' 

It  was  only  a  question  of  time  and  patience  now, 
and  Bonamy  knew  the  business.  Many  visits, 
unvaried  gentleness,  soft  talkings,  little  gifts  of 
favorite  food  at  each  visit,  and  gradually  resent- 
ment gave  way  to  toleration,  toleration  to  interest, 
and  interest  to  attraction. 

"I'll  never  forget  the  first  time  she  let  me  scratch 
her  head  with  a  stick,"  said  he.  "I  felt  as  proud 
as  if  I  was  a  star  batsman  winning  the  pennant 
on  a  home  run." 

Thus  she  learned  to  look  for  his  visits,  and  before 
the  month  was  up  Jinny  and  he  became  pretty  good 
friends.  His  judgment  of  her  was  right:  she  had 
a  fine  character,  was  unusually  intelligent,  and 
only  needed  the  chance  he  gave  her.  In  her  worst 
rampaging  she  had  never  hurt  any  of  the  little 
monkeys.  She  never  seemed  savage  at  women  or 
t.  ^_  children.  She  resented  only  the  men.  But  now 
Wit"  —  J  sne  was  becoming  quite  tame  even  with  them,  ex- 
cept that  she  always  hated  Keefe,  and  the  sight 
of  a  sailorman  roused  her  to  fury. 
But  her  friendship  for  Bonamy  grew  daily;  she 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

would  come  running  to  meet  him,  and  if  he  passed 
the  cage  without  noticing  her,  she  would  jump  up 
and  down  on  all  fours,  scratching  her  ribs  with  her 
little  finger,  and  giving  a  peevish,  "Errr,  errr." 
She  was  in  good  health  now,  and  mentally  as 
keen  as  a  brier.  She  had  more  sense,  the  keeper 
used  to  say,  than  "some  humans  he  could  name." 
With  her  renewal  of  life  and  strength,  and  the 
total  elimination  of  perpetual  terror  and  sense  of 
cruelty,  she  developed  a  most  lively  disposition. 
She  was  full  of  tricks  that  were  partly  due  to  her 
active  brain  and  partly  her  physical  energy.  And 
strange  to  say,  she  also  showed  that  at  bottom  hers 
was  a  most  affectionate  nature.  As  Bonamy  said, 
she  turned  out  to  be  the  best  Monkey  he  ever 
handled.  She  was  worth  more  than  a  Lion  to 
draw  the  public.  She  could  take  the  crowd  away 
from  the  Elephant  and  keep  them,  too,  and  seemed 
to  have  a  pride  in  it,  she  was  so  nearly  human. 
There  was  not  an  animal  in  the  Zoo  that  the  keep- 
ers thought  as  much  of  as  Jinny.  They  learned 
to  count  on  her  now  to  "swing  the  whole  thing"  / 
when  there  was  a  special  day  for  school  children.  yy 

THE   SOUL  OF  A  MONKEY 

/Three  months  had  barely  gone  since  Jinny  came, 
and  though  not  an  important  animal  judged  by 

235 


Jinny*    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

the  catalogues  of  dealers,  there  is  little  doubt  that 
she  was  the  head-keeper's  favorite.  It  was  not 
wholly  because  of  his  own  triumph  in  converting 
her  from  an  outlaw  into  the  "most  lovable  Monkey 
he  ever  knew,"  but  because  back  of  her  bright 
dark  eyes  there  really  seemed  to  be  a  personality 
almost  human;  keenly  alert,  deeply  affectionate, 
and  Bonamy's  morning  walk  to  lie  office  took 
him  invariably  now  to  call  first  on  Jinny. 

One  morning  he  was  late  in  arriving.  There 
was  a  crowd  of  visitors  around  the  cage  as  he  went 
by.  Every  few  minutes  a  small  outburst  of  ap- 
plause or  laughter  showed  that  some  of  the  animals 
there  were  making  hits  with  the  audience,  and 
he  was  not  surprised  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Jinny 
busy  at  her  usual  antics.  He  had  indeed  guessed 
that  it  was  her  crowd,  for  she  had  more  drolleries 
than  all  the  rest  put  together.  She  used  to  walk 
a  tight  rope  after  chalking  her  feet  with  a  piece 
of  chalk  given  her  at  first  in  play,  but  she  was 
taught  to  use  it,  and  later  learned  to  chalk  the 
end  of  her  nose  at  the  same  time,  to  the  joy  of  the 
multitude.  Her  other  specialty  was  to  stand  on 
her  head  near  the  front  bars,  catch  hold  high  up 
with  her  hind  feet,  then  swing  herself  up  bodily 
sidewise  till  her  front  feet  had  hold  far  above  her 
hind  ones;  then  repeat  the  movement  till  she  had 
236 

v»** 


Jinny*    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

rolled  herself  all  the  way  to  the  top,  reversing  the 
loops  to  climb  down  again. 

In  spite  of  printed  warnings,  some  woman  passed 
under  the  barrier  and  reached  forward  to  pull 
the  tail  of  another  Monkey  who  was  crouching  with 
his  back  to  the  public,  and  came  so  near  that  Jinny 
snatched  her  hat  off,  and  putting  it  on  her  own 
head,  continued  to  perform,  and  drew  still  louder 
rounds  of  applause  from  the  crowd.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  she  appreciated  the  applause,  for  it 
was  noticed  that  she  always  did  best  for  a  crowd. 
Most  monkeys  have  a  human  side,  but  Jinny 
was  unusually  gifted  that  way,  and  the  head- 
keeper  had  a  personal  interest  in  her,  so  that  now 
he  went  to  his  office  with  a  sense  of  personal 
pride. 

Jinny  meanwhile  played  her  lively  pranks  to  a 
lively  audience.  Small  boys  threw  peanuts  which 
she  ignored,  for  her  cheeks  were  already  bulging 
with  them,  and  grown-ups  threw  bonbons  which 
she  promptly  rescued  from  the  other  monkeys,  for 
she  was  the  largest  in  the  cage  and  had  the  well- 
earned  reputation  of  being  a  dangerous  fighter. 
Every  one  but  the  owner  of  the  lost  bonnet  was 
convulsed  with  joy  as  she  dissected  it  bit  by  bit, 
and  spat  out  the  pieces  that  she  tore  from  the  trim- 
ming. Then  responding  to  the  tenth  encore,  she 

237 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

began  her  back  somersaults  up  the  iron-work.  Just 
as  she  was  drawing  herself  up  with  her  breast  tight 
against  the  bars,  a  coarse  but  foppish-looking  man, 
yielding  to  some  incomprehensible,  diabolic  impulse, 
reached  out  a  long  sword  cane  and  stabbed  the 
monkey  in  the  groin.  With  a  scream  of  pain  she 
fell  to  the  ground,  and  at  once  the  scene  was 
changed.  A  wave  of  fear  and  dismay  sent  all  the 
lesser  monkeys  chattering  to  the  high  perches.  The 
near  onlookers  were  shocked  and  were  loud  in  their 
cries  of  "Shame!"  while  those  behind  were  strug- 
gling to  find  out  what  had  happened. 

Why  do  men  do  these  cruel  things?  That  horri- 
ble beast  had  actually  stabbed  that  little  Monkey 
for  the  mere  pleasure  of  inflicting  pain. 

After  the  first  scream  Jinny  had  fallen,  then  she 
dragged  herself  to  the  far  end  of  the  cage,  where 
she  sat  moaning,  with  her  hands  on  the  wound. 
The  crowd  had  recoiled,  but  now  gathered  again. 
Voices  shouted,  "Where's  the  keeper?"  "Send 
for  a  policeman!"  "That  brute  should  be  ar- 
rested!" 

The  head-keeper  was  aroused  by  the  noise.  He 
went  quickly,  sensing  mischief.  "What's  up?"  he 
shouted,  and  a  number  of  answers  were  volunteered. 
"Jinny's  hurt,"  was  the  only  clear  one.  And  then 
a  small  boy  said  excitedly:  "I  seen  him  do  it.  It 

238 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

was  that  there  big  feller.  He  stabbed  her  with  a 
sword  cane." 

But  the  big  fellow  had  disappeared.  It  was  just 
as  well,  for  the  head-keeper  was  furious  when  he 
heard  that  the  victim  was  his  favorite,  and  if  he 
had  caught  that  human  brute  there  might  have 
been  another  very  unpleasant  scene,  and  equally 
unprofitable. 

Jinny  was  moaning  in  the  back  of  the  cage. 
The  regular  keeper  had  tried  to  help,  but  all  her 
old-time  ferocity  seemed  aroused.  He  did  not  dare 
to  come  near.  As  Bonamy  hurried  to  the  door, 
the  boss  arrived  and  protested.  "Now  I  advise 
you  not  to  go  in,  she's  dangerous.  You  know  what 
her  temper  is."  Yes,  Bonamy  knew  better  than 
any  of  them,  but  he  entered. 

There  in  the  far  corner  was  Jinny,  holding  her 
hand  on  the  wounded  side,  moaning  a  little  and 
glaring  defiance  at  all,  much  as  she  used  to  do  in  the 
early  days.  She  snorted  savagely  as  he  came  near, 
but  he  stooped  down  and  talked  to  her.  "Now, 
Jinny,  now,  Jinny!  I  want  to  help  you!  Don't 
you  know  me,  Jinny?  " 

At  length  he  prevailed  so  far  that  she  allowed  him 
to  lift  her  hands  and  examine  the  wound,  not  big 
but  deep  and  painful.  He  washed  it  with  antiseptic 
and  put  on  a  sticking  plaster.  She  moaned  while 

239 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

he  worked,  then  seemed  quiet.  When  he  left  she 
called  him  back  in  monkey  fashion,  a  whining 
"errr,  errr,"  but  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  his  office. 

Next  morning  she  was  no  better,  and  had  pulled 
off  the  sticking  plaster.  He  scolded  her.  "You 
bad  Jinny,"  he  repeated.  She  hid  her  eyes  behind 
her  arm  and  allowed  him  to  put  on  another  sticker, 
but  she  began  to  pull  that  off  as  soon  as  his  back  was 
turned,  and  again  was  scolded  till  she  seemed 
ashamed,  or  afraid.  Still  it  was  off  when  next  he 
went  to  the  cage. 

Twice  a  day  he  went  to  see  her  now,  and  she  kept 
on  just  the  same,  sitting  moaning  in  the  back  of  the 
cage  with  her  hand  on  the  place.  She  always  bright- 
ened up  when  he  came  in  and  gave  that  little 
whining  ' '  errr,  errr ' '  when  he  touched  her.  But  her 
wound  did  not  heal:  it  looked  swollen,  raw,  and 
angry;  and  each  day  she  was  more  upset  when  he 
left  her.  Then  it  got  to  be  too  much  of  a  scene; 
she  clung  to  him  and  kept  moaning  and,  in  monkey 
fashion,  begging  him  to  stay.  But  she  would  not 
let  any  one  else  come  near,  and  he  did  not  know  how 
to  fit  it  in  with  his  other  work.  So  one  day  he 
took  the  short  cut.  The  boss  said  he  was  "crazy," 
but  he  did  it.  He  took  that  Monkey  up  in  his 
arms,  and  she  hung  around  his  neck  like  a  child  as 
he  carried  her  to  his  office.  She  sat  up  in  a  chair 
240 


Jinny.    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

and  seemed  quite  bright,  holding  to  the  shawl 
muffled  around  her  and  watching  him  all  the  time 
at  his  desk.  Once  in  a  while  she  would  moan  out 
that  whining  "errr,  errr."  Then  he  would  reach 
out  his  hand  and  stroke  her  head.  This  pleased 
her,  and  she  would  give  one  or  two  little  petted 
grunts  and  settle  down. 

But  he  had  an  unpleasant  scene  to  face  every  time 
he  had  to  leave  the  office  on  business.  It  made 
him  feel  so  guilty  that  he  transferred  all  the  outside 
work  he  could.  It  was  very  awkward,  but  he  could 
see  now  that  Jinny  wouldn't  last  long,  and  he  had 
got  so  fond  of  her  that  he  could  not  bear  to  cross  her. 

Mealtimes  were  making  three  breaks  a  day, 
which  meant  three  upsets,  so  he  had  his  food  sent 
to  him  on  a  tray. 

In  a  few  days  it  was  clear  that  Jinny  was  dying. 
She  could  not  sit  up  now,  her  brown  eyes  no  longer 
watched  the  clock  that  seemed  alive,  nor  brightened 
when  he  spoke  to  her.  So  he  swung  for  her  a  little 
hammock  near  his  desk.  In  that  she  would  lie 
and  watch  him  with  a  wistful  look  on  her  face,  and 
call  him  when  he  seemed  to  forget  her  presence. 
Then  he  would  give  the  hammock  a  little  swing 
that  pleased  her.  He  had  to  keep  the  books;  she 
did  not  like  to  see  him  doing  that;  it  prevented  him 
looking  at  her.  So  he  used  to  lay  his  left  hand  on 
241 


Jinny*    The  Taming  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

her  head  as  he  worked  with  the  right.  She  would 
hold  one  of  her  hands  on  her  wound  and  tightly 
grasp  his  with  the  other. 

One  night  he  had  given  her  the  little  soup  she 
would  take,  had  tucked  her  in  her  hammock  as 
usual,  and  was  about  to  leave,  but  she  moaned  and 
seemed  to  feel  terribly  about  being  left.  She  ut- 
tered over  and  over  that  soft,  "errr,  errr,"  so  that  he 
finally  sent  for  some  blankets  and  made  up  his 
mind  to  stay  with  her.  But  he  did  not  have  a 
chance  to  sleep.  About  nine  o'clock  she  was 
feebly  holding  one  of  his  hands  in  her  own,  and  he 
was  trying  to  check  up  some  accounts  with  the 
other,  when  she  began  calling  in  her  whining  voice, 
but  low  and  softly  now,  for  she  was  very  weak. 

He  spoke  to  her,  and  she  had  his  hand,  but  that 
was  not  enough.  She  wanted  something  more. 
So  he  bent  over  her,  saying,  "What  is  it  Jinny?" 
and  stroked  her  gently.  She  took  both  his  hands 
in  hers,  clutched  them  to  her  breast  with  convul- 
sive strength,  shivered  all  over,  then  lay  limp  and 
still,  and  he  knew  that  Jinny  was  dead. 


He  was  a  big  strong  man.    Men  called  him 
"rough,"  but  the  tears  streamed  down  his  face  as 
he  told  me  the  story,  and  added:  "I  buried  her  in 
242 


Jinny.    The  Taming:  of  a  Bad  Monkey 

the  little  corner  lot  that  we  keep  for  the  real  pets, 
on  a  stake  at  the  head  I  nailed  a  smooth  teak  board 
for  a  memorial  tablet,  and  on  it  wrote:  "Jinny — 
the  best  Monkey  I  ever  knew."  As  I  finished  writ- 
ing this  I  found  I  had  used  a  part  of  the  cage  she 
came  in;  and  there  on  the  back  of  it  still,  in  large 
letters  describing  little  Jinny,  was  the  label, 
"Dangerous!" 


THE  END 


BOOKS  BY  ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 

WILD  ANIMALS  I  HAVE  KNOWN,  1898 

The  stories  of  Lobo,  Silverspot,  Molly  Cottontail,  Bingo,  Vixen, 
The  Pacing  Mustang,  Wully  and  Redruff.  Price,  $2.00.  (Scrib- 
ners.) 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SANDHILL  STAG,  1899 

The  story  of  a  long  hunt  that  ended  without  a  tragedy.  Price, 
$1.50.  (Scribners.) 

BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  GRIZZLY,  1900 

The  story  of  old  Wahb  from  cubhood  to  the  scene  in  Death 
Gulch.  Price,  $1.50.  (Century  Company.) 

LOBO,  RAG  AND  VIXEN,  1900 

This  is  a  school  edition  of  number  one,  with  some  of  the  stories 
and  many  of  the  pictures  left  out.  Price,  soc.  net.  (Scribners.) 

THE  WILD  ANIMAL  PLAY,  1900 

A  musical  play  in  which  the  parts  of  Lobo,  Wahb,  Vixen,  etc.,  are 
taken  by  boys  and  girls.  Price,  500.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Com- 
pany.) 

THE  LIVES  OF  THE  HUNTED,  1901 

The  stories  of  Krag,  Randy,  Johnny  B«ar,  The  Mother  Teal, 
Chink,  The  Kangaroo  Rat,  and  Tito,  the  Coyote.  Price,  $1.75  net. 
(Scribners.) 

PICTURES  OF  WILD  ANIMALS,  1901 

Twelve  large  pictures  for  framing  (no  text),  viz.,  Krag,  Lobo,  Tito 
Cub,  Kangaroo  Rat,  Grizzly,  Buffalo,  Bear  Family,  Johnny  Bear, 
Sandhill  Stag,  Coon  Family,  Courtaut  the  Wolf,  Tito  and  her 
family.  Price,  $6.00.  (Scribners.) 

244 


KRAG  AND  JOHNNY  BEAR,  1902 

This  is  a  school  edition  of  Lives  of  the  Hunted,  with  some  of  the 
stories  and  many  of  the  pictures  left  out  Price,  soc.  net.  (Scribners.) 

TWO  LITTLE  SAVAGES,  1903 

A  book  of  adventure  and  woodcraft  and  camping  out  for  boys  tell- 
ing how  to  make  bows,  arrows,  moccasins,  costumes,  teepee,  war- 
bonnet,  etc.,  and  how  to  make  a  fire  with  rubbing  sticks,  read  Indian 
signs,  etc.  Price,  $1.75  net.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

MONARCH,  THE  BIG  BEAR  OF  TALLAC,  1904 

The  story  of  a  big  California  grizzly  that  is  living  yet.  Price, 
$1.25  net.  (Scribners.) 

ANIMAL  HEROES,  1905 

The  stories  of  a  Slum  Cat,  a  Homing  Pigeon,  The  Wolf  That  Won, 
A  Lynx,  A  Jackrabbit,  A  Bull-terrier,  The  Winnipeg  Wolf,  and  a 
White  Reindeer.  Price,  $1.75  net.  (Scribners.) 

BIRCH-BARE  ROLL,  1906 

The  Manual  of  the  Woodcraft  Indians,  first  edition,  1902.  (Dou- 
bleday, Page  &  Company.) 

WOODMYTH  AND  FABLE,  1905 

A  collection  of  fables,  woodland  verses,  and  camp  stories.  Price. 
$1.25  net.  (Century  Company.) 

THE  NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS, 
1907 

Showing  the  Ten  Commandments  to  be  fundamental  laws  of  all 
creation.  78  pages.  Price,  soc.  net.  (Scribners.) 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  SILVER  FOX,  1909 

or  Domino  Reynard  of  Goldur  Town,  with  100  illustrations  by  the 
author.    209  pages.    Price,  $1.50  net. 

A  companion  volume  to  the  Biography  of  a  Grizzly.  (Century 
Company.) 

LIFE  HISTORIES  OF  NORTHERN  ANIMALS,  1909 

In  two  sumptuous  quarto  volumes  with  68  maps  and  560  drawings 
by  the  author.    Pages  1,267.    Price,  $18.00  net. 
Said  by  Roosevelt,  Allen,  Chapman,  and  Hornaday  to  be  the  best 

245 


work  ever  written  on  the  Life  Histories  of  American  Animals. 
(Scribners.) 

BOY  SCOUTS  OF  AMERICA,  1910 

A  handbook  of  Woodcraft,  Scouting,  and  Life  Craft  including  the 
Birch-Bark  Roll.  192  pages.  Price,  $oc.  Out  of  print.  (Double- 
day,  Page  &  Company.) 

ROLF  IN  THE  WOODS,  1911 

The  Adventures  of  a  Boy  Scout  with  Indian  Quonab  and  little 
dog  Skookum.  Over  200  drawings  by  the  author.  Price,  $1.75  net. 
(Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

THE  ARCTIC  PRAIRIES,  1911 

A  canoe  journey  of  2,000  miles  in  search  of  the  Caribou.  415 
pages  with  many  maps,  photographs,  and  illustrations  by  the  author. 
Price,  $2.00  net.  (Scribners.) 

THE  BOOK  OF  WOODCRAFT  AND  INDIAN  LAW,  1912 

with  over  500  drawings  by  the  author.  Price,  $1.75  net.  (Double- 
day,  Page  &  Company.) 

THE  FORESTER'S  MANUAL,  1912 

One  hundred  of  the  best-known  forest  trees  of  eastern  North 
America,  with  too  maps  and  more  than  200  drawings.  Price,  $1.00 
in  cloth,  soc.  in  paper.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

WILD  ANIMALS  AT  HOME,  1913 

with  over  150  sketches  and  photographs  by  the  author.  226  pages. 
Price,  $1.75  net.  In  this  Mr.  Seton  gives  for  the  first  tune  his 
personal  adventures  in  studying  wild  animals.  (Doubleday,  Page 
&  Company.) 

MANUAL  OF  THE  WOODCRAFT  INDIANS,  1915 

The  fourteenth  Birch-Bark  Roll.  100  pages.  2$c.  paper,  750. 
cloth.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

WILD  ANIMAL  WAYS,  1916 

More  animal  stories  introducing  a  host  of  new  four-footed  friends, 
with  200  illustrations  by  the  author.  Net,  $1.50.  (Doubleday, 
Page  &  Company.) 

246 


WOODCRAFT  MANUAL  FOR  BOYS,  1917 

A  handbook  of  woodcraft  and  outdoor  life  for  members  of  the 
Woodcraft  League.  440  pages.  700  illustrations.  Price,  $oc. 
(Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

WOODCRAFT  MANUAL  FOR  GIRLS,  1917 

Like  the  foregoing  but  adapted  for  girls.  424  pages.  Illustra- 
ted. Price,  SQC.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

THE  PREACHER  OF  CEDAR  MOUNTAIN,  1917 

A  novel.  A  tale  of  the  open  country.  Net,  $1.35.  (Doubleday, 
Page  &  Company.) 

SIGN  TALK,  1918 

A  universal  signal  code,  without  apparatus,  for  use  in  the  Army, 
the  Navy,  camping,  hunting,  daily  life  and  among  the  Plains  In- 
dians. Net,  $3.00.  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.) 

BY  MRS.  ERNEST  THOMPSON  SETON 
(Published  by  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO.) 

A  WOMAN  TENDERFOOT,  1901 

A  book  of  outdoor  adventures  and  camping  for  women  and  girls. 
How  to  dress  for  it,  where  to  go,  and  how  to  profit  the  most  by 
camp  life.  Price,  $2.00. 

NIMROD'S  WIFE,  1907 

A  companion  volume,  giving  Mrs.  Seton's  side  of  the  many  camp- 
fires  she  and  her  husband  lighted  together  in  the  Rockies  from 
Canada  to  Mexico.  Price,  $1.75  net. 


*47 


SRLF 

Biomedical  Libra 


Form 


AT 
LOS  ANGKT.HB 

LIBRARY 


3 :  1158  00510  4194 


